


Can you feel the beat?

by yourlightningsmile



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Advanced Idea Mechanics, Alternate Universe - Journalism, F/M, FitzSimmons Secret Santa 2014, Hydra (Marvel)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:57:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlightningsmile/pseuds/yourlightningsmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the stories in all the cities in all the world, Leopold Fitz had to be going after this one? The one that was supposed to put her on the map with her superiors, up her sales ratings, and establish her in the good graces of a company that she admired? Of all the assignments, he would choose one that was outside his usual beat, just to one-up her?</p><p>Of course. Of course he would. Hell, he had probably gone out of his way to become psychic just so he could turn up in her life every time she thought she had some guaranteed success. To make things difficult and watch her struggle. Rivals in school, rivals in life, she supposed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Interview

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amandajoyce118](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amandajoyce118/gifts).



> This story is written for the 2014 FitzSimmons Secret Santa gift exchange (for tumblr user amandajoyce118, in particular) in response to her prompt “journalists chasing after same story AU.”
> 
> I'm completely new at writing Fitzsimmons—and pretty new at writing in general—so I feel like this story probably has all the subtlety and nuance of a Hallmark Movie (not that those can't be enjoyable, but let's be honest, they're not really the most carefully constructed stories in the world). Hopefully, though, its good qualities are enough to make up for everything it's lacking.

 

Jemma craned her neck, shielding her eyes from the sunlight glinting off thirty stories of sleek glass windows that, from this angle, appeared to merge with the sky itself.

She shouldn't be nervous about this. She had made a name for herself among her peers—and, let's be honest, there weren't many of those given her young age and her rapidly advancing position in the field of investigative reporting—for having impeccable interviewing skills. Her bright, confident, and direct nature quickly earned her the trust of her interviewees, and people readily let her in on the kind of information they wouldn't for others. Jemma rarely left an interview without the kind of interesting material that would give her articles a unique spin. She was constantly surprising her editors with the admissions she could get out of even the toughest of individuals with just her sharp mind and a hint of empathy. It was a gift and a talent, one that Jemma herself was not unaware of. She'd always had faith that her skills and a heavy dose of preparation would see her through any task that she could possibly be assigned, and that assurance meant that she was never the least confident person when she walked into a room.

But today she might be. Because today she was interviewing for her first full-page, week-long spread: an in-depth profile on a company who's scientific and philanthropic endeavors were coming into the light in the wake of extreme tragedy and government betrayal, whose history and achievements she had researched with growing awe and respect. If she had chosen to pursue university courses in the applied sciences instead of obtaining three research degrees, then Advanced Idea Mechanics, more commonly called AIM, was the kind of organization that she would have wanted to end up working for. And that's before their reputation included heroic acts of service.

After the mass attack on New York, horrors which Jemma had seen and covered herself during her brief stint as a current affairs writer, AIM had casually handed over billions of dollars worth of research and technology for rebuilding purposes. The subsequent downfall of divisions like the NSA and SHIELD had thrown Advanced Idea Mechanics into stark contrast as a 'spark of hope in the midst of widespread suspicion and confusion as the world had become more complicated day by day'. Or so all of the trite articles that had recently been written on the corporation claimed. Jemma could (and would) do better.

She was standing in front of their main offices, preparing to interview one of the highest ranking individuals in the company, a Mr. Sunil Bakshi. Jemma was determined not to think about the impact this interview could have on her career if she were able to pull this off.

She took a deep breath, centered the press badge on the pocket of the meticulously pressed jacket she had ironed a full week in advance of this meeting, and entered the brightly lit lobby that was teeming with people. Giving her name at the front desk, she was directed to a plush couch to wait for an escort deeper into the building. After five minutes dutifully spent re-reviewing (perhaps there should be a third 're-' in there) the notes she had taken and mentally rehearsing the questions she had prepared, a handsome, well-built man in a suit tailored to perfection appeared at her side and made introductions.

“Ms. Simmons?”

She replied in the affirmative.

“It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Thomas. I'm Mr. Bakshi's personal assistant. Unfortunately, the meeting he is in has run long, and he apologizes for the inconvenience. He should be finished shortly, if you don't mind waiting a little while longer.”

“Oh, no of course not, that's quite alright,” Jemma answered pleasantly, “My schedule is free all afternoon.” She made to sit back down, but Thomas stopped her mid-way.

“Actually, if you'd follow me, there is a private waiting area outside of Mr. Bakshi's offices that would be much more quiet and comfortable, I'm sure.” His hand momentarily hovered over the small of her back as he guided Jemma toward the lifts. Though some respect was typically afforded the press, especially in pre-arranged interviews, Jemma wasn't used to such a formal and professional welcome. She didn't know if it made her feel comfortable or more tense.

The ride up to the twenty-fourth floor was mostly silent, with the occasional generic remark on the weather and the unreliability of public transport. After exiting the lift, Jemma was ushered down so many tastefully decorated hallways and around so many corners that she started to wonder if the entire building was a maze. Her heels were just beginning to pinch hard enough to cause her to regret her wardrobe decision, when, finally, they passed through shiny, metallic double doors and into a less populated, but still busy, interior reception area.

Jemma took quick stock of the activity around her. Employees drifted here and there through the hallways and offices that were visible behind another reception desk, chatting and exchanging file folders. A businessman was having strong words with the receptionist, whose smile didn't reach her eyes as she asked him politely to continue to remain seated until he was called for. Several people were sitting on couches and plush chairs interspersed throughout the moderately small space, reading the newspaper—she happily noted that someone had today's edition of _The Post_ —or actively scrolling on their phones. In the corner near the front desk, the lower half of a maintenance worker could be seen through the rungs on his ladder, his top half fiddling with something through a hole in the ceiling.

Following her gaze, Thomas explained, “Please excuse the current renovation work. As I'm sure you're aware, we've just acquired the top half of this building and are trying to move in and remodel the space for our needs as discreetly as possible, but, unfortunately, there are some obstacles that cannot be avoided.”

Jemma nodded her understanding, and he led her closer to the desk, addressing the receptionist very distinctly to be heard over the mechanical noises that were coming from above.

“Marie, this is Ms. Jemma Simmons from _The Washington Post_ here to interview Mr. Bakshi when he comes out of his board meeting. I apologize for leaving you, Ms. Simmons, but I need to go arrange his two o'clock, so if you would just...”

But Jemma never heard what it was that she was supposed to have done, because at that moment just over his shoulder, the maintenance worker's head had come into view as he descended the ladder carrying a large tangle of wires. Her eyes widened in disbelief.

No. Bloody. Way.

At lightning speed, all of the pieces of information that she had at her disposal began to whirl in her head, along with all of the questions his presence created.

Fitz. Here at AIM. Doing maintenance work in the ceiling?? Did he get fired? No. He was too good at his job. Unless he royally pissed somebody off, which...was a possibility. He certainly didn't have what you would call a 'good bedside manner' when it came to people. But no— _Scientific American_ couldn't possibly have sacked one of their most promising technical writers over a little grouchiness and a lot of snark. In fact, Fitz' scathing remarks on everything from internal combustion regulators and modified nuclear reactors to the new iOS software were probably what his bosses loved about him most. That meant he must be on an assignment. On _her_ assignment.

Jemma was incredulous. Of all the stories in all the cities in all the world, Leopold Fitz had to be going after this one? The one that was supposed to put her on the map with her superiors, up her sales ratings, and establish her in the good graces of a company that she admired? Of all the assignments, he would choose one that was outside his usual beat, just to one-up her?

Of course. Of course he would. Hell, he had probably gone out of his way to become psychic just so he could turn up in her life every time she thought she had some guaranteed success. To make things difficult and watch her struggle. Rivals in school, rivals in life, she supposed.

He was sporting shorter hair than she had remembered the last time she saw him, though it still curled slightly at the ends. He hadn't had the five o'clock shadow before, either, but there was no mistaking the shock and recognition in his eyes as he registered her presence in the room.

No one in investigative journalism likes getting made, especially when undercover and especially by the competition. Unfortunately for him, the gap in his attention came at a crucial moment, as his foot was searching for the next rung of the ladder, and he missed it entirely, letting out a loud oath as he dropped everything that he was carrying to grab onto the side rails, narrowly catching himself from meeting the same fate as his tools.

Every head in the office turned towards him, including Mr. Bakshi's assistant, who had finished his last, unheard instructions to Jemma and was likely waiting for some acknowledgement before returning to his work.

Fitz' face flushed, and he cleared his throat before mumbling in his familiar accent, “Just slipped. Nothing to see here.” He quickly bent over and began gathering his things. As the room relaxed back into their previous activities, Jemma turned back to Thomas and gave the nod that he was waiting for, though she had no clue what she was affirming. Still, the man seemed satisfied, and as he walked away, she couldn't help the slightly smug smile that lingered on her face at seeing the ever-superior Scot knocked down a peg or two in public, even for just a few seconds. It served him right. Maybe there was some justice in this world after all.

Regardless, Jemma was still frustrated at his appearance in her life at yet another inopportune time. She walked casually over to the couch nearest to where he was crouched and sat down, pulling out her phone and pretending to text.

She murmured quietly in his direction, “You know, I could walk right up to the front desk and let them know who you really work for.”

Fitz cut his eyes in her direction, “Yeah, I suppose you could. But as someone who actually has his electrical engineering degree, it's entirely plausible that I'm just looking for some extra work on the side.”

“I'm pretty sure that's far too coincidental for them to fall for it. And I doubt they would appreciate reporters taking the back way in to getting information.” Jemma turned as if to dig something out of her purse, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

His eyes were trained on the wires in front of him. To a disinterested audience, he could be making important alterations, but Jemma could tell that he was just fiddling with his wire cutters, stripping the outer protective sheath off of the metallic strands, bit by bit.

“No, I'm sure they wouldn't,” he mumbled, to Jemma's surprise. It wasn't like him to go down without a fight. He sighed, “What in God's name do you think you are doing here, Simmons?”

A flare of anger rose in Jemma's chest, and she immediately snapped at him, “What am _I_ doing here? What are _you_ doing here? This isn't even in your area of interest. There's no technology to be had here, just pure cellular and biochemical research.”

Fitz let out an exasperated sigh, “Well, that's not exactly tr...Look, I know how dedicated you are to the job, you always have been. But, really? Waltzing in here and willingly sitting down in a room alone with Bakshi. This is too dangerous, Simmons. When you question him, what do you think he's going to do? Just sit there and take it? Confess to all of his crimes? No. He'll smile and play innocent and let you leave and from the second you walk back out of those doors there will be a target on your back.”

In her confusion, Jemma forgot that she was trying to be unobtrusive, turning her head fully towards Fitz, her forehead furrowing, “What on earth are you talking about? Why would he be angry about a story that's likely to give his corporation more positive notoriety than ever before? That will finally let America and Europe know who they have to thank for all of the restoration projects that are currently rebuilding cities and...and the generosity that has provided millions of people with healthcare and medicine they never would have had access to otherwise in? Why would they be angry about an article that will finally give them credit for the ideas and scientific breakthroughs that have been ripped off and plagiarized by countless government organizations without any compensation?”

Fitz' expression was dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to reply, but was drowned out by the receptionist calling Jemma's name.

“Mr. Bakshi is ready to see you now. Right this way.”

Fitz began to look weirdly panicked, whispering frantically, “Don't believe anything he says, Jemma. Just don't. He's not who you think he is. _They're_ not who you think they are.”

Under the pretense of placing her phone back into her purse, Jemma couldn't help one last retort, “I don't know what kind of game you're playing, Fitz, but don't you think we're a little old for such childish nonsense?”

She rose and smiled gratefully at the woman, following her into the hallway. When she turned the corner, however, she couldn't help one last quick glance back over her shoulder. Fitz hadn't moved from his spot on the floor, but he was no longer staring at his hands. Instead, he was looking straight at her with something that looked oddly like concern.

But Jemma couldn't think about that now. She had an interview to conduct.

 


	2. Aurora

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tomorrow  
> MgZn  
> Ionospheric Glow  
> Please. I'll buy you a cup of Earl Grey and explain.  
> Fitz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, I had intended for this story to be in two parts, but as I was making final edits today, the second half got a small expansion, and now I think it's best to break it into three chapters. Final chapter to be posted soon! (By the way, for those of you who have sent kudos and kind words, thank you so much! Your feedback means everything to me.)

After being mildly shaken up by her interaction with Fitz, it had taken Jemma a few minutes to calm herself and get settled into the interview process. It wasn't helped by the fact that Mr. Bakshi was an extremely handsome and intelligent man. She'd made it her goal when pursuing journalism not to get flustered by those types of people and let her guard down, so she had pushed all wandering thoughts to the back of her mind and gotten down to business.

And the interview had started off well. As if the entire purpose of her discussion with Mr. Bakshi was to convince Jemma that Fitz was being deceptive and trying to skew her perspective, the answers provided about AIM were interesting, positive, and—if there was any excuse to use the word—perfect. So perfect that Jemma knew exactly how to portray the company in her article. So perfect that it was almost as if Bakshi was trying to manipulate Jemma into being satisfied with superficial quotes and meaningless information. But Jemma had come to the meeting armed with all of the facts and then some, so, as her meeting went into its second hour, she began pushing a little. Cheerfully. Sweetly. But intentionally broaching.

And that's when she noticed a change in the air. Bakshi's demeanor began to betray subtle signs of menace, and he started to smoothly and discreetly turn the questions asked of him back onto Jemma. She had dug up a lawsuit from several years ago that she had some questions about. What were her credentials? Where did she receive her education? She produced a publication by a leading AIM chemist, questioning some of his practices, and was interested in hearing about the company's policies on scientific ethics. What were her personal scientific areas of interest? She inquired about the measures AIM was intending to take to protect their scientific discoveries from falling into the wrong hands, like those of the now defunct SHIELD. Where did she see herself progressing in her career at _The Post_?

At that point, her intuition was kicking into overdrive, telling her that something wasn't right. When she made the offhand, but lighthearted, comment that it seemed more like he was interviewing her for a position in his company than a journalist interviewing him for a newspaper article, Mr. Bakshi explained that he liked to get a feel for the kind of people that wrote about his organization, in the hopes that they could develop what he called a 'strong working relationship' in the future. Though, the way his face contorted when he said the words left no doubt in Jemma's mind that this was in no way meant to be a friendly invitation.

All in all, when the interview was complete, Jemma was left with a sour, queasy feeling in her stomach. When they had finished shaking hands and she was finally free to go, a wave of relief crashed over her. Briskly making her way back to the lobby, she put a hand to her brow and was surprised to feel a light sheen of cold sweat. She hoped it hadn't been obvious. Upon reaching the reception area again, she was eager to be as far away from the building and the uncomfortable interview as possible. Unfortunately, she had no idea how to find the exit. She had never wanted to see a familiar face so badly before in her life, but Fitz was nowhere to be found, the ceiling patched up and ladder gone as though he had never been there at all. Jemma was forced to ask the receptionist for assistance.

As Marie, if she remembered correctly, picked up the phone to page Bakshi's assistant to escort her again, a very large, dark man in a more casual, but no less well-fitting, suit walked up and put a gigantic hand lightly on the woman's shoulder.

“I couldn't help but overhear. I'm already headed down that way and would be happy to do the honors.”

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Mackenzie. That would be wonderful. I won't need to interrupt Thomas.” She gave him a quick smile and turned back to her work.

Jemma felt a bolt of fear shoot down her spine. This man was huge. Fitz' earlier words replayed themselves in her head. _From the second you walk back out of those doors there will be a target on your back._ What if he was right? What if Bakshi had sent someone to do something unspeakable to her as soon as she had left the building?

Jemma considered her options. She could refuse to leave the room with him, but realized that causing a scene would give Bakshi that much more reason to target her. So Jemma resolved that if she felt threatened in any way at all by the time they had reached the bottom floor, she would feign a need to use the toilet, ducking inside and calling her boss to send someone to ensure she made it out of the building safely.

Luckily, she was never alone with the man, both the hallways and elevator busy and bustling, and when she chanced a glance up at his face, he was staring straight ahead with a pleasant, if unnaturally blank, expression. But she decided not to take the risk.

When they reached the open lobby and Jemma spotted the sign for the ladies room, she turned and said animatedly, her face scrunching in a failed attempt to appear casual, “I think I'll just step in here for...”

But Mr. Mackenzie interrupted her before she could complete the sentence.

“It's safe to talk here, Ms. Simmons. I'm sorry I couldn't put you at ease before, but we had to get out of the office wing. Here,” he slipped a small folded paper into her hand, “You don't need to worry. No one will be coming after you. Just write the article as you had originally intended and let this experience fade into the background. Have a nice day.”

With that, he turned abruptly and walked off in the direction that they had come.

Surprised, but so grateful to see the light of day outside the expansive windows, Jemma hurried across the foyer and out into the sunshine, not stopping until she had made it to the metro station beneath the city's crowded streets. There, she finally allowed herself to take a deep breath and open the note.

On it, scrawled in familiar handwriting, she read:

 _Tomorrow_  
_MgZn_  
_Ionospheric Glow_  
_Please. I'll buy you a cup of Earl Grey and explain._  
_Fitz_

Somehow—maybe it was the confusion of the day or the stress of the interview or the fleeting terror of being disposed of—but her adrenaline was flowing and she let out a small huff of laughter at the absurdity of Fitz using such childish code in a note.

 _Really, Fitz_ , she thought, _anyone could crack this._ But instead of feeling annoyed or smug, she was only aware of an absurd relief, a weird sense of comfort and genuine amusement combined in an post-adrenaline kind of giddiness. She quickly pulled out her diary—she had never gotten round to thinking of it as a planner, though most people called it that here in America—and wrote in an appointment for 12:30 the next day, searching on her phone for a local cafe called Aurora.

\-----

She spotted Fitz' lanky build, dark gold curls, and checked shirt as soon as she stepped into the crowded coffee shop, walking towards the table near the back that he currently inhabited and sitting down opposite him in the well-worn chair. She hadn't had much time to think about it yesterday, but it had been odd to see him wearing a dull grey maintenance uniform instead of the brighter clothes that she had come to associate him with throughout their years in university. There was already tea on the table, loose-leaf, properly brewed in a pot, and as she poured herself a cup, she couldn't help ribbing him just a little.

“The periodic table of the elements, Fitz? Really? Who was going to be stumped by that in an office full of scientists?”

“Hey! I thought it was quite good for being off the cuff,” he grumbled, “And, anyway, you obviously figured it out correctly. What would have been the point of a note that you couldn't have made sense of?”

“Is that supposed to be a thinly veiled critique of my intelligence?” Simmons bristled. She was grateful that he had sent someone he trusted to make sure she left AIM in one piece, but she didn't come here to be criticised.

“No! Of course not. Geez, Simmons, I'm just trying to help.”

Thirty seconds in and they were already bickering. This was going to go so well.

Fitz shifted in his seat. “Look, I'll just jump right into it. You've got the wrong idea about AIM. The whole company is a front. All that stuff you said yesterday—that's just what they want you to believe.” Fitz busied himself stirring his tea.

“I figured out as much during the interview. Bakshi was...well, there was something off about him. He was creepy.” Jemma gave a shudder at the memory of his cold, penetrating gaze.

Sighing, Fitz said, “I'm sorry you had to go through that, but in all fairness, I did try to warn you.” At Jemma's irritated expression, he hastened to continue, “I'm just glad that you believe me. That you realize that AIM is bad news. God, that was not actually meant as a pun.” He rubbed his forehead, the self-effacing expression on his face quite comical.

Jemma's eyebrows rose in derisive amusement as she gestured towards him. “And _this_ is the most up-and-coming writer for _Scientific American_. I shudder for your editors.” His face grew steely, but he seemed to relax a little when he realized that she was joking.

“Yeah, this from the girl who received an essay back from Professor Decker with the inscription, 'Stop using a thesaurus'.”

Jemma fixed him with a glare, “So I had a flowery language phase. I grew out of it.”

Fitz chuckled. “Truth is, he was probably just intimidated because he couldn't understand half of the words himself. Bloody git.”

“Hey, don't be mean. He might have been a little, shall we say, inept, but I'm sure he meant well, bless him.”

“You would say that, because he didn't threaten to flunk you out of COM 101.”

“Well, in his defense, Fitz, you did make him look like an idiot during his evaluation for tenure.”

Fitz sputtered, “Yes, well, if he deserved the honor he should have been able to handle it. So, I did the school a favor really.” At the same moment, both he and Jemma seemed to realize that they were having what could be termed as a 'normal conversation.' Clearing her throat, Jemma quickly reverted back to business.

“You were going to tell me about AIM. What is going on? And why on earth were you up a ladder in their offices?” She sipped her tea and settled in for a long explanation.

“Okay, Simmons, but first you have to promise me that you're not going to blow my cover in the papers tomorrow. None of this is on the record. This is between you and me, and I'm doing this so that you will understand that you need to be careful and leave this story alone.” Jemma started to make an exclamation, but Fitz cut her off.

“No, just listen for once, okay? I mentioned that the company was a front. Well, they're not just that, but so much more. Have you ever heard of HYDRA?”

For the next two hours, they sat in that cafe, Fitz explaining how HYDRA had hidden in plain sight for decades before framing private government corporations like the NSA and SHIELD, how those divisions were suffering from the false accusations they were under, short-staffed and cut off at the knees, and how companies like AIM were manipulating the media, gaining the trust of the public and using it to hide their barbaric crimes. But more than this, Fitz provided proof. Government files, unredacted transcripts, even blueprints of the kind of weaponized technology that could fuel a new world war, all saved on the tablet that he pulled from his bag.

“This is why you haven't seen many articles from me recently, because once I got word of this from my informant, I took this story to my boss and told him that this could be the biggest coverup mankind has ever seen. But we have to keep it close to the chest, because we can't be sure who is actually HYDRA and who isn't.”

“This informant...,” Jemma inquired, “...is he the man who...?”

“Slipped you the note? Yes. That's Mack. Suppose there's no point in trying to hide it now. He's deep undercover. Has even worked up the ranks to become an assistant to Bakshi thanks to his brilliant knowledge of mechanics. He's the one who got me the job in maintenance.”

“Yes, why _are_ you running cable when you could be asking for a technical writing position and getting direct access to their technology?” Jemma wondered.

Fitz bit into his third pastry—he must have the metabolism of a hummingbird the way he eats—before commenting, “If we're going to have any shot at exposing them, we have to think big, go straight for the source. You'd be surprised how little people pay attention to the cable guy. I've been working in offices before and overheard entire confidential meetings. And running the wiring gives me the distinct advantage of tapping into any feed I want during the day. Endless intel at my fingertips.” He wiggled said fingers before extending his hands up to rest behind his head, leaning back with a self-satisfied smile.

Jemma rested her elbows on the table, pondering.

“So what does this mean for me now? I still have a story to write. A whole series of stories to write. Mr. Ma...Mack...said to just write what they want. But I can't do that—I have a duty to my bosses, to the public, and to myself to tell the truth.”

“Not if the truth shouldn't come out yet because it will endanger the lives of others.”

Jemma sighed. “Well, you've certainly given me a lot to think about. I...appreciate your honesty. You didn't have to share these things with me.”

Fitz rubbed hard at the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Yeah, well. Can't have you getting carried off by HYDRA scum,” At the lift of her eyebrows, he continued hastily, “My Pulitzer won't feel nearly as much of an accomplishment if I wasn't beating you out for it.”

And just like that, the spell was broken, her usual irritation coming back in spades. She quickly gathered her things and stood to leave.

But just before she started to walk away, a hand grabbed her wrist, and she turned back towards Fitz.

“So, Simmons. I've told you everything I know. Remember, none of this is on the record. So do you promise, now that you understand the kind of danger AIM and HYDRA are threatening, that you'll stay away? That you'll focus on another story and let this whole thing fade into the background?”

She felt her stomach drop even further at the familiar words—the ones that she had heard come out of the mouth of his informant just yesterday. Words that seemed just a little too insistent that she distance herself from the story, leaving it wide open for a certain someone to come in and claim all of the glory for himself when things went pear-shaped. Pulitzer, indeed.

He really was good. Convincing, even. It was a huge risk to share his intel and his source even if it was sure to scare her away. But once again, she was one step ahead of him.

Jemma couldn't quite make her smile reach her eyes when she responded.

“Of course.”

She turned and walked out into the cold afternoon rain.


	3. Follow the Lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jemma,” he said bluntly, producing her day planner from his jacket pocket, “Your diary literally says 'infiltrate HYDRA' under 24 September.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has clearly gotten out of hand. But hopefully in the best way possible. As I told amandajoyce118, this was never part of the plan, but every time I would go to edit my draft, the story would just expand. Anyway, here is a third chapter. And yes, there will be a fourth. Have a wonderful New Years! I'm off to celebrate.

 

For the next week and half, Jemma Simmons did what her parents, professors, and peers had always known her to do—exactly as she was told. Buried under mounds of paperwork, with computers and tablets spread out around her, she poured herself into research in preparation to write her series on AIM. And what resulted—a succinct yet fascinating history of the corporation, a spotlight on key discoveries that had changed the landscape of scientific innovation over the past few years, and a shining commendation of the company's practices and potential for the future.

All in all, enough blatant, sugar-coated lies to make even the healthiest person diabetic.

Her series was pushed to production, consisting of a front page article in the Science and Technology section of Monday's paper and a third page slot for the duration of the week, becoming the longest and most expansive column she had ever written.

On Saturday, Jemma received an expansive bouquet of flowers on her desk, with a message written on heavyweight card stock in delicate letterpress:

 _Ms. Simmons,_  
_I commend you for the excellent work that culminated from our previous discussion._  
_Be assured that I, personally, will never forget your invaluable contribution to the progress of our company and, subsequently, science as a whole._  
_Regards,_  
_Sunil Bakshi_

She stared at the saccharine words in contempt. _Just wait,_ she thought, _my contribution's not over yet._

Fueled by the injustice of being congratulated for complying with Bakshi's wishes, especially by a note as passive-aggressive as the one she received, she threw herself into her work with even more intensity.

Her research of Advanced Idea Mechanics had been, well, a bit more extensive than was necessary. Knowing such information existed, Jemma worked to unearth every document that she could remember from Fitz' files, scouring databases, public archives, wire services—basically anything she could get her hands on. But she could only find about half of the files he had produced that day in the cafe, and her search for the other half had resulted in hours worth of dead ends, restricted access prompts, and never-ending government phone trees. It was just as she had suspected upon seeing the intensely private nature of some of the information: Fitz had been breaking a cardinal rule of investigative journalism—using illegal means to obtain leads.

Even though they were press, it didn't mean they were above the law, a fact that had been ground into them throughout many of their degree courses and all of their on-the-job training. And though Fitz had been known to push boundaries and be extremely 'creative' in the past to get his story, he had never recklessly thrown rules to the wind. The fact that he'd apparently decided at some point between then and now that laws were somehow flexible for him left Jemma feeling both shocked and angered at his success in the journalistic field, and—if she were admitting it to herself—slightly disappointed in him. Even when they had been vying against each other in school, Fitz' intelligence, his competitive nature, and his firm belief in justice and fairness were things that Jemma had always counted on. She hadn't realized how much. Now she was left to wonder how extensively he had cheated the system, even then.

She couldn't allow herself to get caught up in her feelings, however. She had a job to do. Well, two jobs, actually.

From the moment she had left the interview room with Bakshi, Jemma had known that, whatever was truly going on behind AIM's veil of professionalism, she would not stop until she had weeded it out. She felt both a personal and professional obligation to chase down the truth about the scientific conglomerate and expose their unethical and inhumane practices to the world at large. And if she happened to beat Fitz to it in the process, then all the better.

So, she'd made a plan. In the weeks following her series, she changed focus. In addition to her regular work, she spent her nights sifting through all of the documents and data that she had collected on AIM a second time, marking discrepancies and noting hypocrisies. Jemma Simmons was nothing if not detailed.

When she had exhausted the last scrap of data, she scrubbed at her eyes blearily, sipping her third cup of tea of the day, which had unfortunately grown cold hours ago. She glanced around at her flat, which now more closely resembled a tornado of paper and file folders. Though there wasn't enough evidence to prove that Bakshi and other higher ups were up to no good, there was at least enough to convince someone of potential suspicious activity and possibly incite a more detailed investigation. Still, she wanted to be sure before she approached her editor about it.

At first, Jemma had been horrified to find that she recognized a few names scattered throughout the mounds of paperwork. Apparently, some of her fellow students had graduated directly into the HYDRA regime. But though she mourned the days when friends were just friends and not potential criminals, she couldn't help but see the connections as something of a stroke of luck.

If there was a way back into the building, then this was it.

Jemma sent out emails to each of the three contacts, a falsely cheery message about how long it had been since university, how she remembered the good times that they had, how she had recently discovered that they lived in the same city, and wouldn't it be nice to meet and catch up sometime. She topped it off with a nod to her recent article and how excited she would be to interview them about their own personal experiences in their respective departments. Then she waited.

She received two responses in return. She met with Barry over lunch, and, in a voice louder than was probably necessary given the atmosphere, he told her all about working his way up in Finance. Jemma smiled encouragingly and refilled his wine glass when he wasn't looking, intentionally but unobtrusively stroking his ego whenever she found the chance. And as his eyes grew a little more bleary, his conversation got a little less professional and a lot more unguarded. She learned that his partner occasionally double dipped when signing on potential clients, that his secretary wore skirts that accentuated her hips, and that the most lucrative branch of the company wasn't necessarily where most of their outgoing money was spent. The Cellular Regeneration branch of the Genetics Wing received three times as much funding as any other division.

Jemma's second contact was a little harder to make plans with. Cynthia had been a workaholic in uni and was no less of one now. She claimed that she would 'love to meet up, but just couldn't find the time.' After learning that Cynthia worked in the Biochemical division, however, Jemma redoubled her efforts, eventually offering to bring some coffee and a pastry or two by the office in exchange for an interview over her break.

And so, Jemma found herself facing the same intimidating skyscraper that she had been in front of once before, clutching two lattes and a bag of scones. Instead of nervous excitement, however, she felt a bolt of fear run down her spine as she took a deep breath and entered the lobby.

Taking care to make sure that she remained as inconspicuous as possible, she made her way confidently around the circumference of the large room and into the ladies toilet that she had once contemplated hiding in. She sent a quick text to Cynthia to let her know that she had arrived and received a guest code to the lifts in response. Bingo. Thankfully, Cynthia's office was much easier to find than Bakshi's, and she and Jemma greeted each other fondly, settling down for an interview, which quickly escalated to a lot of high level scientific jargon and answers which were obviously tailor-made for the press. However, Cynthia couldn't help the bit of gossip that was thrown in, and she revealed to Jemma that sometimes her supervisors would keep things about current projects and their future applications from the employees. Jemma got the impression that Cynthia suspected that some of their practices were unethical, but chose to overlook it and not press any further in favor of keeping her job.

“The weird thing is, one of my coworkers got fired last year, and I had assumed that he moved on to another company, but one day I spotted him, and he was working as a barista. I went up and asked him about it, but he got really nervous and wouldn't talk about it. Just said something about wanting to make a career change. But really, who with a PhD just wakes up one day and decides to make coffee for a living? To each his own I guess.” Cynthia shrugged her shoulders.

Thinking back to her interview with Bakshi, in what was supposed to be a friendly setting, Jemma could only imagine what getting fired from Advanced Idea Mechanics must be like. As Cynthia's break came to a close, the two women exchanged pleasantries, and Cynthia offered to escort Jemma down to the lobby. Jemma declined, assuring Cynthia that she would see herself out.

Pondering what this new information might mean for her next move, Jemma was unaware of the figure lurking in a corner of the corridor outside of the Biochem division. It wasn't until he spoke that she was even aware that she wasn't alone.

“You promised you would stay away.”

Jemma gave a yelp of surprise, spinning around and pressing a hand to her chest in relief when she registered the familiar accent. She exhaled in frustration.

“Was that really necessary, Fitz?” she hissed, “And, please, keep it down.”

Fitz answered in a contemptuous tone that was both too loud and highly unflattering. He was dressed in civilian clothes instead of his maintenance uniform, his arms crossed in front of him.

“Keep it down? Why? _I_ don't need to—I work here. You on the other hand...”

“How did you know I was here?” Jemma demanded. He pushed off of the wall and came towards her.

“Because I know how seriously you take your work. You never missed a class when we were in uni unless the other alternative was more advantageous to you. I doubt that's changed since you've been out in the field. You probably wouldn't miss a day even if you were in hospital,” he sighed at the continued raise of her eyebrows, finally admitting, “I went to your office. And I have to say, your receptionist is not very diligent. I walked past her and into your section of the building the second she turned her back. It didn't take me more than five minutes to locate your cubicle, and when I did, guess who wasn't in it? The guy in the one opposite said you'd gone out on a story.”

“You going to my workplace doesn't explain how you knew that I was here, though. I could have been following any lead. I could have been anywhere.”

“Jemma,” he said bluntly, producing her day planner from his jacket pocket, “Your diary literally says 'infiltrate HYDRA' under 24 September.”

Jemma couldn't tell if the flush on her face was due to her anger that Fitz had violated her personal space or embarrassment that he had found something so childish. She'd had a good—if not slightly nervous—laugh with herself at the time, the absurdity of writing it down in such terms strangely comforting, as though joking about going back made it somehow less risky of a venture. Especially when she was so worried about being caught. It seems her fears weren't unfounded.

Fitz continued, “And what else did I find nearby on your desk but an article printed out from the internet entitled, 'How to Lie Convincingly,' which, I'll admit, was sensible, given the direct correlation between how good you are at getting the truth out of other people and how rubbish you are at telling a lie yourself. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure the rest out.”

Trying to hold on to some shred of dignity, Jemma said lightly, shrugging her shoulders in what she hoped was nonchalance, “I was just visiting a previous coworker. A friend. No other reason.”

Fitz rolled his eyes at her transparency. “And my point has just been proven.”

He glanced down at his watch before grabbing her upper arm and attempting to gently, but firmly, manhandle her down the hallway.

He managed to get her around the corner, Jemma wriggling slightly in an attempt to free herself, but Fitz' voice was firm when he said, “No. I'm going to escort you myself back to your flat. No arguments. You owe me that much.”

Jemma bristled. “I don't owe you anything. And you don't have to follow me, I'm leaving of my own free will.”

Fitz snorted, “Yeah, and I should trust anything you say...why, exactly?”

“Because, I'm not the one who...” Jemma stopped short at the sounds of running and a lot of scuffling. Muted shouts rang out from somewhere in the distance. Then Jemma heard a sickening crack followed by many others of the same.

Gunshots.

“What was that?” she turned back to Fitz, whose face had gone pale. She stood in indecision, but as the sounds grew louder—the yells and the gunshots becoming more pronounced—Fitz grabbed her by the waist, muttering something that sounded like 'early', and drug her bodily down the hallway towards a large metal door. Fumbling around in his pockets, he produced an access key, swiping it swiftly through the card reader. She heard a buzzing noise of success before Fitz yanked open the door and entered, tugging her inside with him and slamming the door behind them. They were thrown into darkness.

Jemma strained her eyes to make out any detail that she could through the pitch blackness. Consequently, she was startled when light suddenly flooded the small space. Through squinting eyes she made out Fitz, breathing heavily, standing next to the switch that he had just flipped.

They were in a tiny janitorial closet, all cinderblock walls and muted greys with the smell of dirt and antiseptic mixing together into something distinctly chemical. The noises from the hallway had grown much more faint, but were still audible through the thickness of the bricks.

“What on earth is going on out there?” Jemma exclaimed, trying to calm her pounding heart.

Fitz shuffled nervously.

“I...I don't know. But obviously it can't be good. We have to stay in here. I'll try to get a message to Mack.”

He typed out something quickly on his phone, and a relieved expression crossed his face, “It's sending, thank God.”

Fitz glanced up at her with a half-smile that was genuine in its gratefulness. But it didn't last for long, because as the seconds ticked on, his forehead began to crease and he began to mutter unintelligibly. He extended the phone upwards towards the ceiling in an obvious entreaty for signal, and Jemma felt some of her hopefulness wane. It disappeared completely as Fitz threw down the phone onto a nearby shelf, muttering curses, before beginning to tear through the supplies that were stored on the others.

“What are you doing?” Jemma inquired, but Fitz seemed either not to have heard her or to be purposely ignoring her in favor of tossing around the various odds and ends he found scattered there. Jemma nervously looked to the doorway behind which she could hear muffled footsteps and the occasional distant gunshot. As Fitz' frustration increased, he inadvertently knocked over a container of small metal objects, and it resounded with a crash.

“Shhh!” Jemma stood and grabbed his arm, “Fitz. You have to be quiet or they might hear us.”

He grumbled, his hands shaking in frustration, “Why isn't there anything useful in here? What's the point of a maintenance closet if there's nothing in it to do maintenance with? Why couldn't we have gotten stuck on one of my floors?” But her plea appeared to have broken through to him because he calmed down, moving things around more gingerly.

He eventually slowed, hands stilling, reflexively gripping at the shelf nearest his head. He leaned his forehead against one arm in a gesture of defeat.

“The message won't go through. And there's nothing here that I can use to amplify the signal. It looks like we'll just have to wait it out.” He released the shelving and walked towards a wall, placing his hands above his knees and letting himself slide down until he was sitting back down on the floor. Jemma mirrored his actions, sitting down on the ground adjacent to him.

After several moments of uncomfortable silence, some heavy scuffling and a sharp cry of pain sounded from the hallway outside their cramped hiding place. Jemma cringed, and the thought came unbidden that, if they were found, a similar cry could shortly be coming from her own mouth. Gradually, their predicament sank in, and she found herself shaking—this, getting stuck in...well, whatever this was...was something that she could never have planned for. Jemma had to admit to herself somewhere in the back of her mind that she was scared, but her pride wouldn't allow her to voice her fears in front of Fitz.

Instead, she aimed for detached objectivity.

“So, what do you think is going on out there?”

But Fitz wasn't having that, apparently. He countered, “The real question is why are you here after you promised me that you would leave this story alone? I was going to let it go until we got to yours, but obviously that's not going to happen at present.”

Jemma went silent again, floundering around for anything to use in her defense. What came out was weak at best. Her eyes and hands fluttered about as she tried to evade blame.

“Technically, I didn't promise. There was no _promise_ involved. I merely _said_ I wouldn't come back.”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, disparagingly, “I'll make sure to get a formal contract written up next time I need your word on anything. The point is that you told me you wouldn't come back—and, yet, here you are.”

Despite her fear, she couldn't help her reply, “Yes, and apparently it's a good thing I did because something important and, might I add, extremely newsworthy is going on out there, and I am near the front lines to be able to report about it.”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“Um, I think our situation might qualify as a bit more than 'near the front lines', Simmons, seeing as we're trapped in a broom closet bang in the middle of a SHIELD firefight. We're _on_ the front lines. Hell, we _are_ the lines at this point. I'm not sure many reporters would go to these lengths, no matter how much it would benefit their career.”

Jemma's head had snapped towards him, “A SHIELD firefight? How do you know it's a SHIELD firefight?”

Fitz' drew back, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before he said, too casually, “I...I saw a man in a SHIELD vest down the hall. That's why I pulled you in here.”

Jemma advanced on him slowly, leaning up to crawl even nearer towards him than their close quarters had previously allowed. “No. I got a good look in both directions before you dragged me in here and there was no one. _And_ I heard you muttering something about it being too early.” Realization dawned on her, “You know what's happening out there. And not only that, you knew it was going to happen before it started.”

Fitz looked as though he were internally berating himself.

He sighed, “Look, I haven't exactly been straightforward with you about what I've been doing here. But I can't talk about the details right now. I want to, but I can't. You're just going to have to trust me.”

Jemma stared. This whole situation had seemed surreal, but for some reason—maybe the shock and stress were sinking in, maybe it was the culmination of a week of sleepless nights doing research, her tense interactions with Bakshi, or the roller-coaster of emotions she had been riding on in regards to the man in front of her—but everything that had happened in the past few weeks came crashing down on her. She was sitting in the middle of a janitorial closet weighing her odds of getting shot at, and Fitz was still withholding information from her. It wasn't their jobs on the line this time. It was their lives. What aspect of his journalism career was so important to him that he wasn't willing to let it go even in a life and death situation? They may not have been friends, but she never thought he would be so selfish and careless with anyone's safety. She let her thoughts and accusations fly.

“Trust you? Trust _you_? Let's think about this. You've been working at AIM, you have inside information about the company that only someone in high ranks would have access to. How do I know you're not HYDRA yourself?

“Wait. Woah, no. Jemma, that's not...Look, I know you're scared, but if you would just...”

But Jemma was on a roll. “Maybe not, but you're up to something. And I know that you and I have never been close, but I would never have thought that you would be so petty as to put our lives on the line just to keep the upper hand over me. What are you trying to do? Scare me?”

“What? Of course not! I came here to get you out before any of this started! I don't...How could you think that of me?”

She had waited for years to pour out all of her frustrations with him, and though these may not have been the circumstances under which she had pictured venting them, once she gained momentum, she found that she couldn't stop.

“Look, everything's always been easy for you. You've always been able to fly by the seat of your pants, not a care in the world, and when the rest of us were revising like crazy, the Firsts just came rushing towards you. You never had to lift a finger. And when I found out that you've been getting your information illegally, it wasn't too much of a stretch to believe that you've been skirting the system all along. We both know that everything you've ever done is for the sole purpose of staying ahead of everyone else. Me especially, for some unidentifiable reason. Maybe you play the game better than I do, but I just can't believe...,” her argument trailed off as she glanced at Fitz' face.

His eyes were widened in what looked a lot like hurt, his forehead twisted in anger. He spluttered, his hands clenched into fists and his accent coming out unguarded, “Staying ahead of you?! That's what you think I want from you?”

“Of course! Isn't that what our field is all about? Twisting words and pushing buttons to get a specific result? Isn't that what you've been doing to me this whole time?”

At the end of her declaration, Jemma didn't know how, but she knew that she had done something grievously wrong. Made some kind of mistake. And she wasn't even sure what that was. But her chest tightened when Fitz' usual angry retort or prickly words weren't forthcoming. Instead, he was silent, staring at her with an incredulous look on his face, his breath leaving him in a loud gust, and the fingers of his right hand rose to grab the bridge of his nose. He took two deep breaths. Finally, his hand dropped, and Jemma saw an expression on his face that she had never expected to see in her lifetime.

Defeat.

“I don't...” he started, his voice quiet and breathy, and though his words were directed at her, his head was turned away, and it seemed to Jemma as though he was talking more to himself, “ _How_ could you not...?”

He changed tacts again, his gaze coming back to rest on her.

“Do you _really_ not know?” his expression was earnest, pleading, “Or are you just having me on? You've never been the kind of person to be cruel to people just to have a good laugh. I mean, that's one of the things I lo...” His voice broke off and he swallowed audibly, looking at the ground and taking another deep breath.

There seemed to be some sort of battle going on in his head, because he kept shifting his weight from foot to foot unconsciously, like he used to do when he was in the middle of composing an essay in class. It used to drive Jemma crazy, and she always thought that he was just doing it for show, to exaggerate how hard he was working and how brilliant his creative process was, but there was no one to take notice of it now except for her, and he didn't even seem to be all that aware of it himself. It made Jemma pause and consider that maybe it had just been a quirk all along. This realization just made Jemma cognizant of both how well and how little she actually knew the man in front of her. Her thoughts were interrupted when he spoke again.

“Let me get this straight. You think that I've been purposely following you around in order to sabotage your career.” Jemma had to admit, hearing it out loud made it sound a thousand times more self-centered than it had always seemed in her head.

Trying to defend herself, she interjected, “No. I mean, yes. Well, not quite. I just...you have to admit, it hasn't been natural the way we've been pitted against each other again and again. In uni, in graduate courses, for scholarships and internships, and now in our field work. What other conclusion am I supposed to draw? And it must be your doing because _I_ certainly haven't been chasing after you. In fact, I have done everything in my power to just let you go your separate way.” His expression went blank, almost stony, but she plunged ahead, trying to get him to understand what had been in the back of her mind for so many years.

“I mean, think about it, if we weren't always set against each other maybe we wouldn't annoy each other so much, maybe we wouldn't be frustrated all of the time when we're around each other, maybe we could even be...I mean, we could even be...” She trailed off.

“Even be what, Jemma?” Fitz was looking at her with an intensity that had her stomach in knots.

“Friends, Fitz!” The words finally burst out like a dam that had broken. “We could even be friends. And don't dismiss the idea before you've given it some thought. We both have the same interests, we're the same age, on the fast track in the same high-pressure career. I've even noticed that we like the same TV shows and read some of the same books. We have so much in common that if we weren't always trying to come out on top I think we could actually get along. Just think about it.” She was breathing heavily, her arms settling at her sides from where they had been gesturing wildly.

“You want me to think about it?” Fitz, replied, his voice monotone as he took a step closer towards her before stopping in his tracks. “Jemma, I've done nothing _but_ think about it since the day that I met you.” His head shook in disbelief.

“I...what? I don't understand.” Jemma stumbled over her thoughts, as jumbled as they were. He had never looked so serious and determined, and she wanted nothing more than to hear him explain what he meant right bloody now, but something was niggling at the back of her brain, interrupting her thoughts.

Fitz appeared ready to plunge ahead into an explanation, but Jemma's sudden awareness of her surroundings drowned out everything else, and she was forced to stop him, grabbing his forearm in panic.

“Wait. Fitz. Do you hear beeping?”

He looked thrown by her question, but quickly shook himself out of it, craning his ear to listen. As the seconds ticked by it became apparent to Jemma that she had been right. A faint, repetitive noise could be heard coming from somewhere outside of the door. And, to her horror, as the beeping grew more distinct in their silence, Jemma also became aware of something more frightening—it was speeding up. And as it accelerated, time seemed to slow down.

It must have happened in an instant, but Jemma would swear on her life that the explosion went off in agonizing slow motion. Fitz' eyes went wide and his mouth formed a word that she couldn't hear because suddenly her face was being pressed into his shirt and his arms were gripping her tight.

Then there was nothing but oppressive sound and the oddest sensation of bright light that she could both see and feel all around her.


	4. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If all had gone well, then there would have been a sharp sound of impact of the metal door on a human body, the heavy crack of the large piece of concrete coming into contact with the bones of the skull, and a deep thud as the attacker fell unconscious to the floor, allowing Fitz and Jemma to make a run for it towards the nearest emergency stairwell.
> 
> Of course, nothing that complex could go according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No more predictions, because obviously I have no self-awareness of my writing or my story. I'm just going to keep making (what I consider to be) necessary additions and see where this whole thing takes me. I've also spent some time updating minor things on previous chapters for better flow. Some lovely confessions and fallout to occur in future chapters.
> 
> Less may be more in some cases, but with fan-fiction, I think more is more. Hopefully you will agree.

Her body was vibrating. Or maybe that was just her head. Regardless, a high pitched (could she call it a noise? It was more like a single tone) resounded through Jemma's brain, and her ears ached. The rest of her senses were chalky. When she breathed, when she swallowed, when she tried to reach out around her, all she could smell and taste and feel was grit and dust. Jemma forced her eyes open and blinked several times, peering into a cloudy haze of muted red light that was now shining through several large holes in the wall across from her.

Her face felt hot—blistered from the burst of heat just seconds before—and when she lifted a hand to her cheek, it stung lightly. She shifted to sit up from where the blast had thrown her against the back corner, grimacing when the entire left side of her body began to throb in protest. Trying to get her bearings, she took in the piles of rubble and debris that were now scattered throughout the small space, her gaze eventually landing on a cloth lump by the far wall. Her stomach dropped.

Fitz.

Jemma had felt the soft cotton of his jumper against her cheek and the tight grip of his arms around her before the explosion had ripped them apart, sending them careening in opposite directions. He had thrown himself over her before the blast, taking the brunt of it himself.

His body was angled almost facedown on the floor, completely still. Jemma scrambled up, heart pounding, to crawl towards him, biting her lip against the pull of bruised muscles, scraping her hands on chunks of brick and metal in her effort to negotiate the few feet between them. The shelving from the back wall had fallen on top of his legs and she worried that she wouldn't be able to lift it, but thankfully it was made of aluminium and proved fairly light. Grimacing at a spark of pain from her left hip, Jemma hoisted it off of Fitz' body and placed it as quietly as she could out of the way, though she couldn't avoid some scraping sounds where it dragged against the now jagged stone wall. Dropping ungracefully at his side, Jemma held her breath as her finger immediately searched for the vein at the side of his neck.

 _Please let him be alive_ , her thought went out into the universe like a prayer. When she felt the steady pounding of a pulse tapping a rhythm through his skin, she almost collapsed in relief. But because she could never be satisfied until she had multiple points of confirmation, she checked his wrist, too, and placed a hand beneath his nose to feel the air rush over her fingers.

Jemma took a deep breath to steady herself and began to take stock of their situation. Before the explosion, when her brain had finally recognized the repetitive warning sound for what it was, the thought had flown into her mind that she and Fitz must have been caught. That someone had heard their increasingly heated, careless exchange and was either blowing in the door to apprehend them or to just off them and be done with it. But the door, now dented and warped, remained closed, and the ineffectiveness of the blast in destroying the maintenance closet convinced her that she and Fitz had not been the intended target. Whoever had set the bomb off must have had some other purpose in mind.

This didn't mean that they weren't seconds from being discovered, though, despite this fact. The eerie red glow permeating the tiny room began to flicker, and Jemma felt a brief moment's panic as she recognized movement in the hallway through the smoke, people passing swiftly by in front of the gaps in the wall, blocking the already dim light with their bodies as they ran. No one stormed in on them, though, and as the seconds passed, Jemma grew more confident that she and Fitz would not be discovered. But they really needed to move parallel to the door so that they had the least chance of being spotted if the smoke dissipated and someone decided to take a glance into their hideaway. She turned her attention back to Fitz.

Jemma shook his shoulder lightly, in the hopes that he would come to, but she got no response. His skin looked reddish, raw, and the sideburn that she could see appeared to be singed off. The sharp, acrid smell of burnt human skin and hair was faint around them. She began to run her hands over his body, brushing her palms over his legs and as much as she could reach of his torso in an attempt to discern if he had any major injuries. It must have been the shock setting in, but the thought popped in her mind that if she had been told that she would be feeling up her rival within the week, she would have accused the person of inhaling too much ink from the press in the production room. She felt a huff of a laugh rise in her chest, though the brief thought hadn't been even remotely funny in this context.

Yes, definitely the shock.

After a careful perusal of the lower half of his body where the shelves had lain, she came away satisfied that there were no major broken bones or wounds that needed immediate medical attention. Unfortunately, Jemma didn't have enough knowledge to determine if Fitz had sustained any internal damage, but she took comfort in what she could. She supposed, technically, she could have stopped her search at that point, but Jemma found herself continuing the inspection, her hands brushing lightly up and down each of his arms. She couldn't tell herself why, perhaps because of their shared history, the unfinished conversation they had been having just minutes before, or because he had just put undue risk on his own life to protect hers, but Jemma found a kind of comfort in making sure that he was okay. Her motions grew slower and significantly more gentle as she reached his neck and head, where a close examination revealed several thin cuts marring his skin, likely from flying debris. Her hands wiped the dust off of Fitz' forehead, smearing the tiny drops of blood beading up there, as she felt around his skull. She wasn't surprised to feel a large lump where his head must have made impact with the wall. She hummed in sympathy—that one was going to hurt when he came to.

She didn't have a choice though. She couldn't move him by herself, and they had to figure out what they were going to do. Try to get out of the building? Stay hunkered down indefinitely? At some point they would need medical examinations. She would have to wake Fitz up, at least long enough to shift them both a few feet.

Jemma bent over his body, her hands hovering in indecision. What was the best way to bring someone back to consciousness that was both quiet, so as not to alert anyone else to their presence, but also gentle, so as not to exacerbate any injuries? She thought about her mother and what she would do in a situation like this. Softly, Jemma brushed her fingers over Fitz' curls and whispered close to his ear, “Fitz. Fitz, can you wake up for me?”

Her attempt backfired, however. He showed no signs of stirring—unlike the dust in her throat, which her lungs objected to vehemently. Jemma couldn't prevent the hacking coughs from overtaking her, and she hunched over, trying to stifle the noise with her arm as best she could.

Her distress must have jarred Fitz back to consciousness, though, because when she finally caught her breath and groaned, another voice joined hers, creating a pathetic-sounding duet. She whipped around to find Fitz's forehead scrunched up in discomfort, his face turned as far down towards the floor as possible, as if he were trying to bury it in a mattress to block out an insistent alarm. She wondered if he always looked so young when he woke up.

Jemma took the opportunity to place her hand on his shoulder, saying his name again softly to try to rouse him awake further. Though her voice was hoarse, she managed it without choking this time.

In response, Fitz gave an unintelligible murmur, but then his eyes shot open blearily in panic, and he called out a mumbled, “J'mma.”

He instinctively tried to roll over and sit up, but hissed sharply before he could even shift his body weight, and she was quick to ease him back down, trying to both reassure and warn him at the same time.

“Shh, Fitz. You're okay. I'm okay. We're alright for the moment. But you need to stay quiet or they might hear us.”

His hand slid across the floor and up the line of his body from where it had been laying at his side, immediately seeking out the back of his head with a moan of pain. His words were slow and slurred, but clear, “Unngh...If you happen to be hitting me over the head with a sledgehammer repeatedly right now I'd like to kindly ask you to stop.”

Jemma let out a breath that she didn't even know she was holding. Her ears still felt clogged and Fitz' voice sounded as though it were coming to Jemma through a long tunnel. She shook her head at the strange sensation, but she was so relieved to hear him speak coherently, even jokingly, that she couldn't help the small smile that broke out over her face.

“I might have been tempted a time or two in the past, but I can't take any of the credit right now. I checked, and I don't think you have any other major injuries, but who knows what you could have sustained internally. Do you hurt anywhere else other than your head?”

This time he shifted slowly, allowing her to help him sit up against the wall, legs sprawled out in front of him.

“I suppose a little. My wrist feels sore...,” he motioned to his right hand, “...and my back. But, comparatively speaking, no. It's mostly my head. How long have I been out?”

“Just a few minutes. Some men ran by, but nothing else has happened. We're still trapped,” Jemma responded. There was a pause, and Jemma looked towards the hole in the concrete before she admitted quietly, “I thought the explosive was meant for us, that we were done for.”

She turned back and their gazes locked briefly. Fitz' expression told her that he had thought the same. He shifted slightly, glancing around and cataloguing their surroundings much like she had done earlier. His expression grew distant.

“What I said before about wishing we were on one of my floors—I suppose I'm glad that we weren't after all. I have flammable liquids stored in my closets. They would have ignited in the blast, and we'd have been torched for sure.”

His admission and what it would have meant for them caused a shiver to run down Jemma's spine. Fitz was silent for a minute, his gaze fearful and grim, as though he were imagining a very different scenario than the one that was laid out before them.

Jemma thought it would be wise to pull him back from those kind of thoughts, especially when they needed to figure out a plan. She reached towards him, her fingers touching his arm lightly, “That may be true, but we're here and we made it and we've still got a chance. We were both top of our classes, even in our second and third degree programmes. We've won awards in both journalism and scientific fields. And I don't care what anyone says about book smarts versus common sense, it takes a great deal of both to have gotten to where we are in our lives. We just need to use a little bit of that ingenuity to decide what to do next. How to get ourselves out of here.” Fitz finally looked up at her from where his gaze had been locked on their single point of contact. His head trauma must have been getting to him because he appeared as if he was shaking himself out of a stupor.

“Yeah. I...I reckon one of us ought to make a run for it. I can find a way out and go get some help. Then we can come back and get you.”

Jemma balked. “Um, first off, splitting up is never a good idea. And secondly, if we _were_ to split up, I would clearly be the one going to get help. You can barely sit up let alone stand and walk.”

Fitz retorted, “I'm feeling much better already. In a few minutes time I'll be just fine. And no, I'm clearly the better choice because I have more experience navigating the building.”

“You won't be navigating anywhere if you black out halfway to the exit.”

“And you'll have yourself going in circles just trying to get off of this floor.”

Jemma huffed. “Fine then. We go together. It was the better option anyway.”

“No, Jemma, it's too...” Fitz paused suddenly. The faint squeaking of rubber soles on a floor could be heard outside in the hallway. Then the sound stopped suddenly.

Heart pounding out of her chest, Jemma motioned outside, whispering, “I think someone's out there.”

Fitz looked nervous, but he steeled his expression, whispering confidently, “Okay. Take this...,” he handed her a large piece of the concrete wall that was laying in the corner next to him, “...and when I say go, we'll ambush them.” After a few more frantically whispered instructions, Fitz and Simmons gingerly rose up from the ground and got into place near the door. Jemma was ridiculously skeptical of this plan, but Fitz was right. This could be their last and only chance, and if they were going to go down, they weren't going to do it without a fight.

If all had gone well, then there would have been a sharp sound of impact of the metal door on a human body, the heavy crack of the large piece of concrete coming into contact with the bones of a skull, and a deep thud as the attacker fell unconscious to the floor, allowing Fitz and Jemma to make a run for it towards the nearest emergency stairwell.

Of course, nothing that complex could go according to plan.

Staring at each other, their heads bobbing in unison, Fitz and Simmons mouthed, _One. Two. Three,_ after which Fitz threw his entire body weight into the door, flinging it open as hard as he could. Jemma stepped forward, concrete brick held overhead, poised to whip around the corner and smash it down on their intruder with as much force as she could muster. However, she never got that far, because the swinging door was met with a barrier—namely, two large hands that halted its progress before it could swing open more than a couple of feet. Unfortunately, Fitz couldn't halt his own momentum as quickly. His already-injured head bashed into the unforgiving metal, his feet losing grip on the floor and sliding out from under him as he met with the resistance and his arms flailing in an attempt to keep himself upright. This put his legs unexpectedly in the way of Jemma's advance, and she caught her toe on the cuff of his jeans, stumbling forward and losing her grip on the brick, which ricocheted off of the door frame and landed pointlessly with a sharp crack on the tile of the hallway. She managed to recover her balance and straighten just in time to watch the door being flung wide and the barrel of a gun being shoved into her chest. Jemma gave a shout of surprise, instinctively throwing her arms into the air in a sign of surrender.

There was a lengthy pause. When Jemma's brain was finally able to process more than just the deadly barrel in front of her and the prospect of imminent death, she began to notice the person holding the offending weapon. He was large, dark, and...familiar.

“Ms. Simmons? What the...? Turbo?! What the _hell_ are you guys doing in here?,” Fitz and Jemma glanced at each other, neither one quite up to the task of speaking. Mack continued.

“Wait, don't tell me. We don't have time. We have to get out of here now. Come on.” Mack grabbed Fitz by the collar of his plaid shirt, yanking him up from his awkward position against the door handle and pulling him bodily out of the confined space. Before he was dragged far enough to be separated from her, Fitz grabbed Jemma's wrist, and she found bringing up the rear of an awkward, stumbling train of people reminiscent of her days in primary school. Fitz looked as though it was all he could do to stay upright. He must have been reeling from the multiple impacts on his head. They ran down several—thankfully empty—hallways, Mack keeping Fitz and Jemma close to walls and corners as he covered them. But Jemma knew that getting out couldn't be as easy as this, and she wasn't surprised when they eventually heard noises ahead. Mack turned to them.

“Okay. Here's where it gets tricky. I was made by a few of Bakshi's men a little while ago when this all started to go downhill, but hopefully they are still unconscious, or...well, let's just say they won't be talking for quite a while. In that case, the people with AIM shouldn't target me and hopefully everyone with SHIELD will hold fire until they have confirmation that I'm on their side. Which means that, theoretically, we should be able to make steady progress up to the roof as long as you stick close. But if someone recognizes me or we meet with trouble, you obey my orders, no matter what they are. Got it?”

There were so many statements that Jemma wanted to make in response to that speech, one being that she didn't quite feel comfortable with his choice of the words 'should' and 'theoretically,' but seeing as she couldn't provide a better alternative, she felt it wouldn't be wise to bring that up at this point. Instead, she honed in on an important detail, which seemed much more pressing.

“I'm sorry...the roof?” Jemma couldn't help interjecting. “How are we possibly going to escape from there? Shouldn't we be headed to the entry level?”

Mack glanced at Fitz and then back at her, his mouth quirking up at one corner. “No. The roof is definitely the place to be. Trust me on this one.” He turned quickly and gestured for the two journalists to follow.

“What is it with everyone? Does _no_ one understand the concept that trust is supposed to be earned?” Jemma mumbled under her breath. Fitz cut his eyes at her guiltily as they both began to jog to catch up to the much taller man.

\-----

Jemma had thought she had been exposed to gunshots before, but the experience was exponentially different when the shot was coming mere feet in front of you and the opposing bullet was probably millimeters away from piercing your skin.

Their ragtag trio had advanced toward the maintenance stairwell with several heart-stopping, yet ultimately harmless, confrontations with various members of both HYDRA and SHIELD. Mack was quick to use his association with each group to keep them safe and gain them leave to pass by unharmed. Fitz and Simmons received only a few suspicious looks, which were hastily explained away using Fitz' AIM ID badge or Jemma's credentials with _The Post_. It probably helped that by appearance alone they were the least threatening pair of individuals this side of the Atlantic. Possibly the world.

Finally, they could see an exit sign glowing red above the doorway ahead, and in her eagerness to get to their destination Jemma didn't realize that Mack had stopped dead in front of her, letting off a resounding curse. She slammed into him, apologizing profusely, when the crack of a bullet sounded.

“Get down!” Mack's voice bellowed.

He shoved Jemma and Fitz backwards into a nearby alcove before turning and running back into the fray, already reaching for the gun at his hip. Her nerves already frazzled, Jemma cringed at the sounds of muscle against bone and the cries of pain coming from around the corner, hoping against hope that none of them were from Mack. She's wasn't sure who initiated it, but somehow her and Fitz' arms found their way around each other, and they clung together, pressing themselves into the small space as far back as they could. Regardless of what had happened between them in the past and their tense conversation earlier that day, at that moment Jemma was beyond grateful for something...some _one_...familiar in all of this chaos. Her head felt heavy, and she burrowed her face into the collar of his shirt. For a span of time, Jemma's entire world narrowed to the beat of Fitz' racing heart and the sound of his breathing as it drowned out her own. She could hear shots being fired and a deep tremor resounding in the distance, the tangible vibrations of it reaching them a second after the sound itself, signaling that a second bomb had gone off nearby. Eventually, Mack's head ducked back around the corner. He reached in to grab them, but was stopped by Fitz.

“No. Mack, what is all of this? You said that SHIELD wouldn't be using volatile weapons. You said that this whole thing would be defensive as much as offensive. A quiet takeover from the inside. That is not what is going on out there.” He pointed wildly towards the commotion.

Mack sighed. “It was supposed to be, Turbo, but somehow they knew we were coming today. They met us man for man, and those IEDs...they're the ones detonating them. Even taking out some of their own people. Probably so that they can frame SHIELD in the papers come morning, make it look like we attacked them brutally out of nowhere. They'll play the victim like they always do,” Mack glanced over his shoulder, “But now is not the time to discuss the fallout. We've got to make sure we survive long enough to have that privilege.”

Fitz's expression was drawn, but he nodded silently, and Jemma locked hands with him again as they trailed closely after Mack through the exit door and up countless flights of stairs. Jemma's muscles ached violently, and she silently cursed all of those days that she had skipped out on the gym in favor of getting in an extra hour's work complete. Her only solace was that Fitz didn't appear to be faring much better, his hand clutched over his side as he gasped for breath.

Jemma was just beginning to think that there couldn't possibly be many more floors, when the stairs suddenly ended and only a ladder remained, stretching up to a hatch in the ceiling. Mack turned.

“This leads to the rooftop. Climb up the ladder and make sure to shut and latch the door when you're outside. Once you're up there, start running towards the northeast corner and don't stop. There'll be people who will take care of you once you're on board. I've got to go back down and take care of some business.”

Fitz looked confused, “You're not coming with us?”

Mack clapped a hand on Fitz's shoulder. “I'll be there soon. And don't worry, Turbo. I can take care of myself. See you once all this is over.” He charged back down the stairs.

Jemma and Fitz looked at each other and then at the ladder.

Fitz's face contorted in indecision. “This would normally be the part where I say, 'ladies first', but I'm not sure it applies in this situation. I should go ahead and you follow behind.”

Jemma rolled her eyes at his awkward chivalry, but felt grateful just the same. Climbing up after him, she waited with baited breath as he nervously cracked, and then finally opened, the hatch to reveal the sky. The glorious, glorious sky that had never looked so beautiful and inviting until this exact moment.

Fitz called down, “It's alright. You can come up. There's no one here...” Jemma made her way onto the top of the building and Fitz closed the hatch, remembering to lock it as he was told, before finishing his statement.

“There's no one here...which is a problem. Because Mack said there would be somebody waiting.”

Jemma held a hand to her forehead, squinting her eyes against the setting sun. Fitz was right. The landscape of the roof was bare, not another human in sight. Had they gone through all of that and made their way all the way up here just to be stranded?

She thought out loud, “What was it that Mack had said? Something about running towards the northeast? Which direction is that?”

Fitz looked quickly at his watch and then gazed out at the sun's location in the sky. He then turned his body slightly to the right, his arm pointing out in front of him.

“This way,” he said, “but I know who should be here and they're not. There's no one.” He forehead furrowed in worry.

Jemma had the same concerns, but after the event of the last hour, she took a deep breath, turning to Fitz, “Well, what have you and Mack been telling me for the last month and a half? To trust you? I guess we're just going to have to use some of that trust right now. I mean, what else is there to do at this point?” Her brows lifted at the question. “Now come on, I really want to get away from this building, don't you?”

She began walking forward, only making it a few steps before Fitz stumbled up beside her, and they slowly increased speed, walking faster, then jogging, and finally running full out towards the emptiness of the rooftop corner.

Jemma had just reached the point where the edge of the building was approaching too quickly and had made up her mind to give up and slow down from their sprint, when the pair met with a weird kind of invisible resistance before bursting headlong into a world of sleek metal and machinery. Jemma's eyes widened.

They were on a plane of some sort. And they weren't alone. Immediately two guards grabbed them, yanking and securing their arms behind their backs. One of them spoke into a walkie-talkie and within just a few awkward moments of capture, a small group of people assembled in front of them.

Standing at the front of the group was an extremely average-looking, middle-aged man with brown, slightly receding hair. His smile was calm, contrasting sharply with the destruction all around them, and the knowing look in his eyes set Jemma on edge, though she couldn't figure out why. He nodded to Fitz, who was released by the guard, before extending a hand towards Jemma, his greeting warm, yet unnerving.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Simmons. Or, well...bad afternoon, I suppose, judging by your appearance and the state of your injuries. It's nice to meet you. My name is Phil Coulson.”

 


	5. In the Blink of an Eye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coulson looked at Jemma. “Now, Ms. Simmons, I'm sure you have many questions, most of which I won't be able to answer. However, I would like to satisfy as much of your curiosity as I can, as well as asking you a few things myself. Shall we go to my office? I believe I promised cookies.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has taken me like 85 years to update, but finally, finally a new chapter emerges. I want to say a special thank you to everyone for your patience, but especially to Keener, who has encouraged and asked after this story specifically. I'm dedicating this chapter to you—and, obviously, to amandajoyce118 who has kindly understood when her Christmas 2014 FitzSimmons Secret Santa gift became her Christmas/Easter/(hopefully not Thanksgiving, God help me) FitzSimmons Secret Santa novelette. (Just kidding. It will definitely be finished before then.)
> 
> I would also like to (lovingly, but sarcastically) dedicate this chapter to every scene and interaction from Season 2 thus far in which Fitz and Simmons have somehow managed to be in the same room and a thousand kilometers away from each other simultaneously. Writing this story has been therapeutic in the face of that tension, to say the least.

It wasn't like Jemma to be impolite, but the hand held out to her was the least of her concerns at the moment. It barely registered, though her own had been released by the guard behind her. Instead, she just stared, rubbing lightly at her wrists where they had been confined. Unsure what to do or how to react, she glanced at Fitz in desperation, who, upon being freed from his own restraints, had begun to step towards her and—she was sure someone was having her on— _Phil Coulson._ Right. She was staring at a dead man. Though, considering her predicament at the moment, should she really be surprised? What was she expecting—for life to suddenly start making sense? Not today, apparently.

Fitz, however, wasn't looking her way. He had been caught mid-stride by a pretty brunette who Jemma hadn't seen approach, and they were now talking closely in hushed murmurs, the woman typing one-handed into a computer she was balancing precariously on her other arm. Not wanting to analyze the way her stomach swooped low at that image, Jemma turned back to the man in front of her, who was scrutinizing her with an eerily knowing expression.

“Phil...Coulson,” she enunciated slowly, her thoughts pulling her in two directions at once, “As in...but you're...I thought that—I mean...?” Her voice broke off. She was talking nonsense.

_Get it together, Jemma._

“I don't understand. I worked next to the reporter who wrote your obituary last year,” she blurted less than tactfully. He just smiled.

“They said nice things, I hope. Not everyone was as...delicate...as others. I believe the phrase, 'his appearance was dreaded by all who scorn undesired, hypocritical government bureaucracy' was utilized by at least one or two journalists. But at least they rounded it off with a solid 'He was good at his job.'” Coulson's face screwed up, considering. “Actually, now that I think about it in context, I'm not quite sure that should be taken as a compliment.”

His pleasant demeanor didn't falter, however, at this admission. He lowered his hand, still unshaken, and continued searching Jemma with his steady, unnerving gaze. A beautiful woman with distinct Asian features appeared behind him, touching his arm and speaking low into his ear. Coulson muttered a reply, before directing his attention back toward the journalist in front of him.

“Ms. Simmons, I apologize in advance for leaving you so quickly and without a proper introduction, but, as we are still in the middle of a...,” he glanced around as though searching for a word somewhere on the cold, steel walls before finally landing on, “...a situation, I'm afraid duty calls.”

Coulson shoved his hands into his pockets casually. “If you are willing—and alright, let's be honest, even if you're not—I will need have a chat with you after all of this has died down. We can meet in my office.” Coulson patted his stomach, leaning in as though he was sharing a secret. “I try not to eat too many sweets on principle—it's harder to stay in shape now than it used to be, I'll admit—but I have some chocolate chip cookies stashed...actually, I suppose you'd use the term 'biscuits'? Anyway, they're delicious, and this would be a good excuse to break them out. I might even be able to scrounge up some tea, if you're interested.”

Was he patronizing her? Jemma couldn't tell. The man was so weirdly chipper considering a war was practically breaking out a mere four meters beneath them. The woman beside him rolled her eyes, shooting him a particularly exasperated look, which seemed to break Coulson out of his rambling. “In the meantime, Agent May here will take you to the medical wing and get you checked out. We'll do everything we can to ensure your health and make you comfortable after what I imagine was quite a terrifying ordeal.”

Jemma glanced at the woman, whose face had fallen back into its earlier blank (Calm? Stern?) expression. With a leather-clad arm, she gestured to a corridor behind her with the terse, but not unkind, directive, “Through here.”

Jemma hesitated, glancing again over at Fitz, who had moved across the room and was now flanked by not only the brunette, but also a new, well proportioned man with dark skin, who, had she been in the mood to evaluate, she would have noted was extremely handsome. Coulson noticed her pause.

“I know this must all be very confusing for you.”

Jemma whipped her head back around in surprise. _Thank you_ , she thought, _At least someone acknowledges it._

“Don't worry, you'll see Fitz in just a few minutes after he's been debriefed. You will each need to go through security clearance as well as medical. If both of you check out, then you are welcome to rest and recover.” Coulson turned slightly as if preparing to leave before catching himself. “Oh, and in case I forget to mention it later: welcome to the Bus, Ms. Simmons.” He gave Jemma a smile, hand already hovering over his ear, speaking orders that grew unintelligible as he walked away.

 _Bus? Was that some kind of euphemism?_ Jemma didn't have the energy to give it a second thought. What kind of agency was this? Was it a wonder that she was worried about being taken seriously when everyone involved with SHIELD so far spoke complete nonsense?

She turned back towards her silent leader and they began making their way deeper into the aircraft, Jemma's body protesting even the smallest of movements now that any remaining adrenaline in her veins had finally abated. Agent May's gait was quick, her posture stiff and her footsteps so silent that Jemma wondered if her feet even touched the ground at all. Jemma's clumsy, painful steps rang out obnoxiously. In an effort to be less conspicuous, she tried to shorten her gait and land lighter on her feet, but it just served to make the noise more frequent and therefore more obvious. She cringed inwardly, trying to keep up.

The corridors were short and narrow. The two women weaved in an out of several, passing by various doors and entryways, which revealed offices, a room that contained what Jemma recognized to be a holotable, and, she noted with discomfort, what looked to be a dark, padded cell. She had felt out of control earlier, overwhelmed and out of her depth in the war-zone that was one of HYDRA's main office buildings, but through it all she had clung to a weird sense of surrealism. An inexplicable faith that this would be just one of the many unexpected but harrowing events she was to experience in her life as a journalist, the kind that a young Jemma always imagined having when she grew up. Fitz being there through it all had also provided some unexplainable measure of comfort. Jemma may have been frustrated, angry, and confused by turns, but she hadn't been trapped alone.

Now, though, Jemma was wandering with a strange government agent through an invisible plane parked on top of a building that was currently experiencing a self-inflicted bombing. Life had just gotten immeasurably stranger. Still, as a reporter, she knew she should just roll with the punches and look on this as an opportunity. Somewhere in the back of the mind (with a voice that sounded scarily like her editor) she reprimanded herself for not memorizing every detail of this experience for whatever story would come out of this crazy day. And there _would_ be a story, if she had any say in it. This would be one for the ages.

She was led into a cool, sterile room that looked more like a science lab from her uni days than a medical facility. Agent May indicated that she should remain standing in the middle of the room.

“I have to pat you down now. It has nothing to do with you personally, just orders. We have to take every precaution these days. Your friend Fitz will be getting the same treatment.” She began running her hands over Jemma's clothing, skimming lightly down her front, back, sides and each individual limb.

“He's not my...,” the familiar words began to tumble out of her mouth instinctively, a product of the many years Jemma had tried to distance herself from the other British reporter as they moved identically but separately within the same social circles. Midway through her statement, however, Jemma realized that she was no longer sure exactly what Fitz was or wasn't to her anymore. Her words dangled in the air unfinished.

Before the events of the past month, Jemma would have been quick to dismiss any connection with the more aloof and egotistical competitor. Now, though, she felt that uttering the words would be a discredit to Fitz, even disrespectful, after what he had done for her—after what they had been through together—and the argument that they'd left unfinished came unbidden to her mind. The woman, Agent May, appeared either unfazed or uninterested in Jemma's internal struggle, however. Her expression remained neutral throughout the remainder of the frisk, as she silently skimmed her hands over Jemma's skull and brushed her fingers perfunctorily but gently through the tangled hair falling down her back.

Apparently satisfied, the agent walked away towards a large cabinet, opening it and pulling out various medical and first aid supplies. With a series of questions, tests, and x-rays, she catalogued each of the bumps and scrapes riddling Jemma's body, disinfecting and patching up what she could. Jemma was diagnosed with multiple deep contusions, the most serious one on the area around her left hip, which might have sustained a hairline fracture. Various light burns riddled her shoulder and back, where her shirt had been scorched. To her great relief, she appeared otherwise unharmed internally.

“We have doctors back at the base who will give you another full work-over and confirm these findings once we've landed,” said Agent May, pulling the blood pressure cuff off of Jemma's arm. “Until then, let someone know if anything unusual comes up. I'll give you some medicine for pain in the meantime. It will probably feel worst after you've gotten some sleep, so it might be wise to set an alarm in the middle of the night and be sure to take a dose.”

At Jemma's nod, May continued, “We have a shower through that door.” She held out a cloth bundle and pointed to the other side of the room. Jemma unfolded the clothes to reveal a dark blue long-sleeved t-shirt with the SHIELD logo emblazoned on the front and a pair of generic black sweat pants.

“It's not much,” said Agent May, “But they're clean. And I suggest covering up your shoulder with this before you wash.” She handed Jemma a package of waterproof gauze and a roll of medical tape with a measure of sympathy. “Hot water on burns hurts like hell.”

No doubt Agent May sustained injuries of this caliber daily after a light breakfast. Both impressed and slightly intimidated, both emotions warred with each other for the top slot in Jemma's mind. The promise of feeling clean again was seductive, however, and as May began cleaning up scattered medical supplies, Jemma wandered over to the washroom, holding the gifted clothes slightly away from her body in an attempt to keep from dirtying them before she could even put them on.

The task of showering proved much more complicated than she had expected. Just crossing her arms and lifting them over her head to remove her shirt proved painful, and Jemma sucked in a breath, seeing herself and her injuries in the mirror for the first time.

She counted herself lucky. They looked much worse than they felt. She was covered in grime, various areas of her skin looked shockingly red and shiny, and her entire left side was beginning to mottle purple and yellow. Sucking in a breath of determination, she managed to wiggle out of the rest of her clothing with minimal grunts and groans.

Taping herself up proved to be a much bigger problem, however. After a few unsuccessful tries, Jemma managed to tear the gauze into a piece large enough to cover the worst of the burns and place it on her shoulder, even getting it taped down on the front side near her clavicle. Getting it to stay down properly in the back while somehow maneuvering her other hand to tape it up, however, was proving impossible. With a sigh of frustration, she gave up the fight, grabbing a towel from the stack on the shelf above the sink and wrapping it tightly around her body.

Cracking open the door, she glanced around the room for Agent May, but the telltale dark hair and leather suit were nowhere to be seen. Hearing movement around the door, she stepped cautiously in that direction, quietly calling out.

“Agent May?”

However, the person whose eyes she met with was decidedly not the woman in question. Jemma gave a small yelp, reflexively crossing her arms over the terry cloth covering her chest and scurrying back behind the door so that it would cover her legs, which were extremely bare where they were exposed beneath the short towel.

Fitz was sitting on a short couch in the corner reading a magazine, a bundle of clothes identical to the one she had been given sitting on the table next to him. Apparently, he was waiting for the shower, as well.

He glanced up. “She's not—Oh! Erm...,” His eyes widened, then began shifting erratically back and forth between her and various random locations around the room, as though he couldn't decide whether it was more important to look at the person you're speaking to or respect a woman's privacy when she was less than dressed.

“I don't know where she went, sorry. I can try and go find her, if you like.” He settled on staring awkwardly past her, his eyes landing a little above her and to the right.

Jemma didn't know why her cheeks were pink. It wasn't as if she was naked. She was more covered than if she had a bathing suit on. It was just the sheer awkwardness of being so exposed and vulnerable in front of Fitz of all people. Still, he wasn't taking advantage of the situation. He actually appeared very flustered himself.

She tried to play it off, her hand swiping through the air in front of her in feigned ambivalence, though her awkward, stunted delivery likely belied her embarrassment. “Oh, no. That's alright, it's not worth interrupting her. I'm sure I can manage.” She made to duck back into the small, brightly lit lavatory, but then cringed in frustration at herself.

She had a decision to make. Deal with the pain of the burns (which May had made seem very unpleasant) or suck it up and ask Fitz for help. She took a deep breath and leaned out from behind the doorway again.

“Um...actually, Fitz,” she said quietly. He looked up, surprised. “I...well, the thing is...there's this gauze...I can't get it taped down by myself. I would do without it, but May advised me to wear it. Apparently it can hurt quite a bit if I don't,” she rambled, “Would you...would you mind very much, um, giving me a hand?” Her mouth felt dry, and she resisted the urge to cough.

Fitz seemed very startled at her request, his mouth slightly open in shock, but he caught himself, giving her a quick nod, “Yeah, yeah sure. Em, what do you need me to do?” He slowly began to stand, placing the magazine behind him on the seat he was vacating.

She turned a little, pointing to the protective gauze that was flapping uselessly over her shoulder. “I can't secure it in the back.” She held out the medical tape as Fitz walked hesitantly towards her. “Every time I try the tape gets all bungled or the gauze won't stay down or...”

The sentence drifted off as Fitz took the roll, tearing off a strip and stepping up behind her. Jemma swiped a hand over her hair to make sure it was out of the way and stood as still as she could, arms folded across the towel at her front. Placing a hand over the gauze to keep it in place, Fitz began to carefully position the tape around the edges, smoothing each piece with his fingers to make sure it was secure. Jemma was surprised at how gentle and meticulous his motions were.

Obviously, Jemma knew that being in close quarters with anyone leads to heightened awareness of the senses. And that's how she explained away the tingling she felt whenever his hands brushed over her skin instead of the bandage. A normal physiological reaction. Just chemicals. Suppressing a shiver, she lifted her head, catching their reflection in the tiny mirror above the lavatory sink. She noticed vaguely that they looked kind of like war victims, the skin of their faces smeared with dirt and dust, riddled with cuts and bruises. What caught her attention most was Fitz and the picture they made together, his face so close to hers, looking down at her shoulder with intense concentration that seemed unnecessary for the task at hand. It was completely silent, except for the noise of the tape being periodically unspooled. Even breathing felt like an intrusion, somehow. The way the light and shadows played across Fitz' face, they made him look...well, oddly attractive. Jemma couldn't believe that the thought had sprung into her mind. She jolted when he spoke.

“Those—the burns...they look pretty nasty. I'm sorry about that.”

Jemma turned to him in confusion. “Why? It wasn't your fault.”

“Yeah, well, I know you. I should have known you would pull some stunt and find your way back into that building before any of us could say the word 'HYDRA'.

“ _Some stunt?_ ” Jemma felt her hackles rise at the phrase and gave him a narrowed glare, but decided not to press the issue. If she was ever going to get a real explanation out of him, it was best to keep on good terms. Besides, he hadn't said it venomously. She didn't think he had meant to offend.

Trying to satisfy some of her curiosity, she broached lightly, “Earlier, in the storage room, you told me how you figured out I was at AIM, but how did you manage to find me in the biochemistry wing? The layout of that building is worse than a garden maze.”

Fitz gave a huff as he finished his work, securing the last portion of the gauze down tightly and looking up at her. “Bernie, the security officer downstairs—he's a nice bloke. When I first met him, I was just trying to get on his good side so I could get information off him or see if I could catch anything while I was down there. But it didn't take long to figure out that he has no idea what goes on in that building.” A hint of a smile crept up on his face, “Sometimes he'll pretend that he can't understand what I'm saying because of my accent. Purposely misinterpret my words and make me repeat myself loads of times. He treats me like I'm his grandson.”

He paused for a second. “There's this deli that he likes across the way. Every so often, I'll bring him lunch and have a chat. If I happened to spot you on the security feed while I was there today, then it couldn't have been helped.” Fitz gave a bit of a smirk, but then his face fell slightly. “Bernie's been working there for more than 30 years. Told me about all of the companies he's done security for over that time; apparently the building was only six stories high when it was new. But now that it's been bought out by HYDRA, he's got his notice. They're replacing him, presumably with some thug who's trained to kill. At least he'll get a full pension,” Fitz shook his head derisively.

It wasn't that this monologue shocked Jemma. She had known Fitz wasn't a bad person, per say, but he'd always had an air of being displeased with everything and everyone around him. Always whip smart. Always pessimistic and judgmental. Sharp. Ready to tear down other people's work or steamroll over them. She had never heard him be so sympathetic and caring.

Fitz scraped his hands over the scruff on his chin. “Now that I think of it, I don't I suppose I'll ever see him again. Not after what happened today. His wife died four years ago, but he has a daughter who's family lives close to him. Hopefully they'll do okay.” His expression was neutral, very carefully unemotional, something she was beginning to realize wasn't the case at all. Fitz _was_ upset, and his uncaring attitude was all a front. A show of bravado.

A small, but genuine smile crept on Jemma's face as she looked over at him, “I'm sure they will.” Fitz continued staring ahead, nodding absently, but she could tell he wasn't convinced.

She let out a deep breath, her voice coming out softly and slowly, “The universe has a way of balancing itself out, I think. Things might not look like they are right or fair in the moment, and chaos may happen from time to time, but I think in the long run, you can look back and see that everything works itself out for the good. Like in stories. Or science. I mean, it must. How else could anything survive in this world?”

Fitz stared—really stared—an expression somewhere between confusion and respect forming on his face, like he couldn't make sense of what Jemma had said or the fact that she was in front of him. And then there was a spark of something in his eyes that she had never seen before. It made her feel uncomfortable. Like she wanted to jump out of her skin and curl up and hide in it all at the same time.

She needed something to break the tension of the moment. Fast. She broke his gaze.

“Well, I'm going to...,” she pointed behind her at the awaiting shower stall.

Fitz started. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. Well, have a nice shower.” He turned abruptly, striding back towards the couch.

“I'll try not to take too long.” Simmons said.

“Oh, no, it's fine.” Fitz replied, head turning in the direction of his shoulder, but looking nowhere near her as he called out his response. Jemma ducked her head as she stepped back into the loo, turning on the water and trying very intently not to think about the previous exchange as steam began to rise towards the ceiling.

She braced herself before stepping in. The hot water stung, but it was almost a good feeling as she wiped away the remnants of the blast, brownish-red water swirling at her feet and being carried away by the drain. She scrubbed her skin as quickly as she could while still taking necessary precautions and thoroughly washed her hair with the generic shampoo that she found on the shelf.

Stepping into clean clothes was a luxurious experience, even considering that they were at least two sizes too large and that she had no hairbrush or makeup to speak of. At that point, however, Jemma was growing so sore that she couldn't find it in herself to care. She popped a dose of the painkillers Agent May had given her into her mouth, washing them down with water from the sink before gingerly stepping back out into the medical room with a hasty, “It's all yours.”

Fitz, who had now progressed from reading the magazine to examining the interior wiring of the x-ray machine beside him, closed the panel door with a sheepish look, grabbed the bundle of clothes beside him and, murmuring “thanks,” passed her, clicking the door shut behind him.

Jemma was unsure what to do. Agent May hadn't said anything about staying put after her shower, but she also hadn't said anything about leaving the room. This _was_ technically the government, if a supposed rogue faction of it. She wasn't sure how much trouble she could potentially find herself in if she did something out of line.

For five minutes, Jemma weighed her indecision, occupying herself to the background noise of running water. She towel dried her hair while attempting to read the magazine that Fitz had laid down, which she quickly found far too technical for her understanding of mechanics, then contented herself pacing around the room, cleaning and reorganizing anything that seemed out of place as she had been wont to do in the lab sometimes during university.

Deciding that she was being ridiculous and that her ignorance would be easy enough to prove if she were somehow caught and reprimanded, she opened the door and ventured carefully out into the hall.

It was quiet, though she could hear vague noises in the distance. Heading in the opposite direction from where she and May had come, Jemma turned a corner and found herself in some kind of common room, wood paneled, with plush chairs and what looked to be a small kitchen tucked away in the back.

Jackpot. She was starving.

A quick perusal of the cabinets in the tiny nook revealed enough supplies to pull together two mugs of tea (heated in the microwave—desperate times call for desperate measures), some ham sandwiches, and a bag of crisps. If she was hungry, Fitz had to be ravenous, and, she figured, it was the least she could do. She balanced it all precariously in her arms and returned to the examination room where she felt less exposed.

As she placed the items on the small table beside the couch, the lavatory door swung open again to reveal Fitz in his matching set of SHIELD issued clothing, clean, his short hair dripping down his temple.

He looked nervous, but when Fitz recognized what Jemma had in front of her, his expression instantly morphed into pure delight. “Oh, brilliant! I'm so peckish I was actually considering gnawing my own arm off.”

“It's not much, but it was what I could find. I made us some Earl Grey, as well. I wasn't sure how you took it. I couldn't find any milk, but I brought some sugar in case you like it sweet.” She held up two packets, which he took with a grateful expression, ripping them open and emptying the packets into the steaming mug.

They sat down on opposite ends of the sofa and dove in to the small fare, the only sounds in the next few minutes belonging to Fitz' vigorous chewing. Jemma decided that if ever they were going to come to a peaceful agreement between the two of them, Fitz' frankly ridiculous eating habits would be part of the non-negotiable terms. Chewing with your mouth open—off of the table. Still, she was almost hungry enough to forego table manners herself. Almost.

Having cleaned his plate of two sandwiches and a mountain of crisps in just over four minutes time, Fitz began rubbing the towel over his hair gingerly, wincing as he hit the tender knot that Jemma had found earlier.

“Are you okay?” she gestured vaguely at his head, “Have you gotten checked out, as well?”

“Yeah. Agent Triplett gave me a look over. Other than a huge bruise across my legs, he said the worst thing I've got is a concussion. Apparently, it's an old wives tale that you need to stay awake after head trauma, but because I lost consciousness for so long in the storage room and we won't have access to a real medical facility until we get to base, he recommended that I try not to fall asleep for at least six hours. You know, in case I start to show any more severe symptoms. Just as a precaution.”

Jemma nodded, taking another bite of her food. They sat in relative silence, Jemma resting her head against the wall behind her.

“So,” she said, hesitantly, “SHIELD, huh?”

Fitz rubbed absently at the back of his neck, and Jemma could tell he was deciding whether or not to try to deflect the conversation. Realizing from Jemma's steady gaze that he wasn't going to get away with it this time, he gave up the pretense.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “It's a long story. I'm not technically _with_ SHIELD, per say, but I'm not technically _not_ with them either.”

Jemma raised her eyebrows in an entreaty for him to proceed.

“I got into a bit of trouble over an article that I wrote. There was this prestigious conference on advanced mechanical and chemical weaponry last fall. I'm not proud of it, but I nicked a pass and sneaked my way backstage, pretending I was a lighting engineer for the stage presentations, in the hopes that I would catch an angle here or there about some new tech on the market. Instead, I overheard a conversation about the alleged development of a new targeted, slow-dispersal biological weapon that could completely revolutionise biochemical warfare. I couldn't have hoped for a juicier tip than that, even hearing a couple of names that I immediately began to investigate. They were all linked with AIM. The more I delved into the project, though, the more frustrated I got. I was completely shut out. It was all dead ends, but I was sure that there was something there. So I wrote a really brash, inflammatory article. I mean, it was full on conspiracy theorist, but it had enough truth in it, and I just wanted to see if I could get a reaction. Anything that could give me a new lead or at least confirm what I already knew.

“I published it anonymously. Apparently, it caught the attention of AIM, because Bakshi ordered someone to track down the writer of the article and shut them up for good. Lucky for me, Mack was already a double agent within the company, so he volunteered. When he showed up on my doorstep, he offered me a deal with SHIELD instead. Said that with my expertise, I could continue doing my investigation in conjunction with him, under the radar and within the company itself. He offered me inside information, like the documents that I showed you at the cafe. I was able to show enough of what I had found to my boss, to get him on board with the story. I worked out a deal to put my time and attention one hundred percent into the story on AIM when I wasn't writing my regular one offs. It cuts my time at the journal in half right now, but I've got a contract with them that any and all breaking news on the story will go straight to them, and, subsequently, a good portion of the profits from sales. That's why I haven't been publishing much lately.”

Jemma had wondered once or twice that his name had gone off the grid recently, but she had counted it as luck and had hoped against all hopes that he had chosen to take his talents elsewhere. Preferably far away from her. She shouldn't be surprised, though, that he had made a brilliant career move. He really was one of the best, as loathe as she had always been to admit it. He was successful for a reason.

“When I climbed down that ladder and saw you in the office, though, all bets were off.” Fitz took another swig of his tea.

“I knew who you were,” Jemma said, realization dawning, “And being outed as a journalist wouldn't just blow your cover, but possibly reveal you as a target.”

“I doubt it would have taken them long to figure out the connection.” Fitz stared across the room unseeingly. “I don't know what they would have done with me.”

“If I had known...” Jemma started, “I'm sorry, Fitz. I would never have threatened that if I had known what it would have meant. I mean, yeah, we're competitors, but I would never want something horrible to happen to you, especially because of something I did or said.”

“I know you wouldn't. There was no way you could have known, and if it had been me and some other reporter, I can't say I wouldn't have done the same thing. Who am I kidding? Of course I would have.” They shared a smile.

A loud sound broke through the quiet, a dull roar and a tremor that caused them both to jump and Jemma to grip the couch with both hands. Something that Jemma had pondered earlier jumped back into her mind.

“Oh, God, you don't think the building is collapsing underneath us, do you?” she asked, nervously.

Fitz chuckled at her reaction, “No, that's the sound of an engine. We're taking off.”

Jemma relaxed, slightly embarrassed but feeling justified in her worry.

“This plane,” Fitz mused, a look of longing on his face, “What I wouldn't give to get my hands on the schematics.”

Jemma smiled. A low knock resounded on the door to the hall and it was pushed open, revealing Agent Coulson.

“Fitz. Ms. Simmons. I'm happy to hear that your medical examinations went well. I hope you've been comfortable so far. Good, I see you've found some food.”

They both nodded in the affirmative, Jemma supplementing hers with a polite, “Yes, thank you.”

Coulson looked at Jemma. “Now, Ms. Simmons, I'm sure you have many questions, most of which I won't be able to answer. However, I would like to satisfy as much of your curiosity as I can, and ask you a few of my own. Shall we go to my office? I believe I promised cookies.”

Jemma wasn't afraid of Coulson, by any means, but she still felt an unusual wariness when he was around. He seemed so 'normal' in the midst of this completely bizarre world she had just walked into that it made her uneasy. Like she should be extra careful around him lest she get too comfortable and be caught unawares by...she didn't know what exactly. She couldn't help wanting someone with her in this meeting, but her list of trusted individuals was a bit short at the moment. In fact, it only contained one name, and even that one had been scribbled tenuously just earlier in the day.

Fitz was a decent person, though. She was becoming more and more convinced of it. He would at least stick up for her if worst came to worst. If she needed it, she thought he would be on her side.

“Would it be alright if Fitz came, as well?” she asked, before realizing that Fitz likely had no desire to join her in a meeting. _But_ , she thought, _cookies might be enough to make up for it._ She turned to him. “If you wouldn't mind, that is.”

She could probably make a catalogue of Fitz' surprised expressions at this point, she had seen so many variations today. And now she could add another.

“Yeah. I mean, no. That's fine. If you'd like me to,” Fitz said, hastening to add, “And if it's alright with you, Director.”

Coulson replied, simply, “Shall we?,” leading them around a corner and into a room decorated very differently from any other room Jemma had seen so far. The office had a traditional feel in contrast to the sleek, metallic look of the rest of the plane. Vintage, historical objects were displayed prominently in every direction Jemma could set eyes on. They sat down, Coulson behind a beautiful wooden desk, with Jemma and Fitz facing him.

“I assume Fitz, that you have told Ms. Simmons about your involvement with our organization, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Fitz' expression was tense, as if he was unsure of the response he would receive, “I felt she deserved some kind of an explanation after today.”

“Usually, that kind of information sharing could be problematic, but on this occasion, I am grateful that you have. It will save a little time.” Coulson turned towards Jemma, directing his next words towards her. His expression was calm, but serious.

“Ms. Simmons, I'm afraid that what I have to tell you will be unexpected and tough to digest.” He folded his hands in front of him. “So I won't drag this out.

“HYDRA is known to be ruthless in hunting down and ridding themselves of obstacles that pose a threat to their anonymity, whether large or small. I'm afraid they'll waste no time scouring through the wreckage of today's battle to catalogue anyone and everyone who was present during the altercation and ensure that they won't be able to provide a reliable account of the events that transpired. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen complications, we can't fully rely on our efforts to scramble their technology and prevent video evidence from being resurrected from the debris. It's highly likely that you and many others will be identified on the video cameras that survived the blasts.”

“So, what you're saying is, that they'll be looking for me,” Jemma stated, her back tense.

“You weren't supposed to be there today, but your presence makes you appear to be either with us or a dangerous liability. Bakshi has seen you face-to-face. He will certainly recognize you, and he knows that you are a journalist. You have the means to publish the true story of HYDRA's involvement in today's bombings, and for all they know, you have pictures, video, or other evidence to prove it, which makes you the kind of loose end that is top priority to be...taken care of.”

Jemma sat, unsure at what the purpose of telling her this was. To warn her? To scare her?

“I won't mince words. I am sorry to have to say this, but you will be unable to return to your civilian life as you have known it.”

This declaration was met with silence.

“I'm sorry, are you saying that I'll need to move?” Jemma struggled to wrap her head around the situation.

“Yes. Tonight, in fact, while AIM is still dealing with the fallout from today's events. But not just that. You will have to completely change your identity. New name. New job. Kind of like a witness protection situation, but temporary, with an indefinite end date.

“In the event that HYDRA is dismantled and it is deemed safe, you would be able to resume your life and your work with _The Post,_ pick up from where you left off.” Coulson gestured absently.

“I know how difficult this must be to hear and how little preparation you've had for this, and that is why I would like to offer you second option. Remain Jemma Simmons, but work for us. For SHIELD. Where we can provide you with protection and the opportunity to be a part of taking HYDRA down. I assume your presence in that building today means that you're interested in the same result that we are. Working with us, though, would mean resources, access to information you wouldn't have had otherwise, and the opportunity to be on the front lines against people and organizations that take advantage of others. Media and PR for positive change, if you will, and reinstating true heroes in the eyes of the population. You would also be heavily needed in the area of scientific research.”

Coulson gave a small smile, “And from watching interviews that you have conducted, something tells me you wouldn't be so bad at interrogation, either.” Jemma's eyebrows shot up. Was he crazy? And how on earth had he gotten access to any of her interviews?

“But we can discuss that at another time. I won't lie. It will be hard. You might find yourself in sticky situations like you did today. We'll be bypassing a lot of bureaucracy, training, and protocol by taking you on. But SHIELD is currently understaffed, working from the shadows, and people with multi-disciplinary skills such as Fitz and yourself are invaluable. It would be an honor to have you join us, Ms. Simmons. Please give it some thought. However, we don't have much time to waste.” Coulson folded his hands in conclusion.

Her head was spinning. She didn't know what to think. The painkiller had finally set in and everything, her body and her mind, felt weirdly numb. Like she had been wrung out and hung up to dry. She hadn't even looked at Fitz since Coulson had started his speech. When she turned to him, he looked as surprised by this development as she did, but just stared back at her evenly.

“Jemma. You can call me Jemma,” she said, her voice robotic, head twisting back around towards Coulson. It seemed absurd for the man who had the kind of knowledge and power to inform her that her life was—for all intents and purposes—ending to call her by her surname. The way he spoke, it sounded as though he knew almost as much about her as her own mum.

“And there's no other option? Nothing else that I could do? Anything...?” she inquired, anxiously.

“I'm sorry. There is not. Truly, your safety is at risk, and we take that kind of thing very seriously.” Coulson's expression was calm, unyielding.

“Could I...could I just step out for a minute? Have a moment to myself?” Jemma wasn't sure what Coulson could read on her face, but he nodded sympathetically, looking at her with understanding.

Almost immediately she began to see him differently. He wasn't smug or pitying. He looked almost weary, the lines in his face more pronounced for some reason, as though he had made an occupation out of giving people this kind of information on a daily basis. Is this what working with SHIELD was actually like? Forcing people to make the hardest decisions they've ever been faced with and ruining their lives in the process? And was she even considering his offer of a job a viable option?

She stepped out into the hall and leaned back against the cool wall, breathing slowly and deeply as she mulled over the situation. She had a brief moment of rebelliousness, where she pondered the idea of just walking off of this plane when it landed, refusing any help and fading seamlessly back into her life. But with both HYDRA and SHIELD after her, her logical side quickly squashed this frivolous daydream. So she might not be able to go back to her job at _The Post_ , but maybe she could settle down somewhere, write novels or something while working two jobs like everyone else. No, she was rubbish at creative writing. Non-fiction then. She could submit to scientific journals, maybe work in a lab. Somewhere unassuming, not prestigious, with a moderate amount of funding and just enough equipment to conduct low-level research. The more she thought about it, the more her stomach sank. Not being allowed to do the kind of work she truly loved _and_ being unable to live her own life for an indeterminate amount of time. Not to mention that she had no idea if she would be allowed to see her family. Just worrying and waiting for the day that HYDRA was defeated and some agent in a suit identical to Coulson's would show up at her flat to let her know she was free again. Could she live like that?

Anger flared up in her, towards Coulson and SHIELD for forcing her to make this decision. But no, she was being unfair. It wasn't SHIELD's fault that she had gotten into this mess. It was HYDRA's. It was her own damn pride and curiosity.

It really boiled down to two options, then. One: Wait, uninformed, alone, and helpless. Or two: Wait, but be informed. Be a part of a team, bringing down the hateful human beings who not only created terror, pain, and destruction, but also ruined the life she had so carefully built for herself for the past 26 years.

Jemma set her body into motion before she could do something detrimental, like lose her nerve—or think. She yanked open the door a little too hard, causing both Coulson and Fitz to whip around, the latter looking uncertain and on edge. She walked forward, arms stiff at her sides. As she looked into Coulson's carefully expressionless face, she took a deep breath, clenching her fists as she gave her response.

“SHIELD,” she said decisively, “I'm in.”

 


	6. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After figuratively falling off the face of the earth, I have finally managed to climb my way back onto the surface and finish this story—for me if not for anyone else at this point. I know that jumping back into a fic after an unforgivably long hiatus can be confusing so, if anyone cares to continue along this journey with me to the end, there's a quick SparkNotes-esque summary below to remind you where we've left off before diving in to the new chapter. The next and final chapter (epilogue) will be posted in about two weeks. Cross my heart. I'm excited about it.
> 
> Ridiculously condensed summary of previous chapters:  
> Jemma and Fitz have been rivals since school, both competing in the field of investigative journalism. Jemma, finding Fitz present at yet another one of her career advancement opportunities, begins to research what she soon finds out is a HYDRA facility, partially to spite him. However, Fitz has been working secretly with SHIELD, and an attempt to prevent Jemma from getting trapped in the middle of a planned attack finds both of them stuck in the sieged building together. While beginning to sort out their issues with one another, they are interrupted by a bomb detonating. After escaping, injured, to the Bus and being introduced to Coulson, Jemma is given an ultimatum. She makes the decision to join SHIELD instead of going under witness protection.

The knife was still sitting on the cutting board, crumbs and butter from the scone she had prepared—could it have really been _this morning_? _—_ still sticking to the sharpened edge.

Walking into her flat felt surreal. After the ever-moving chaos of the last few hours, in contrast, everything seemed unnaturally still, eerie almost, as though preserved in time like Steve Rogers was said to have been. She had to strain to remember why each object scattered about was out of place, as though she hadn't placed them there merely hours ago.

 _Can you really forget what life used to be like in less than a day?_ , Jemma wondered.

She peered around the mostly secondhand, but cozy, space she had created for herself after making the semi-permanent move to America. It was the only space where she truly felt she could 'turn off' in a manner of speaking, swaddle herself in a bundle of quilts and her duvet and just relax without the pressure of looking professional, confident, and accomplished at every given moment. It was the kind of refuge where she could put on her old academy sweats and stream the BBC (legally, of course) and just escape.

She hadn't realized how much this particular configuration of square meters had become her lifehouse in an occasionally still unfamiliar world of stars, stripes, and land that stretched on for an eternity. Staring around at her makeshift home, Jemma had a brief moment of pity for herself. Just when she needed this comfort and seclusion the most, she couldn't stay. In fact, she had to leave for good.

After filling out and signing what had amounted to a surprisingly—and frighteningly, to some degree—small amount of paperwork, (“It's unofficial, I suppose, at this point. And probably useless,” Coulson had added, “But, as May likes to remind me, it's important to have everything in writing,”) the agent...wait, _Director_...had declared the transaction complete. Jemma was now both employed with and under the protection of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division of the United States of America. The concept of such an agency was still such a dark and mysterious abstraction that Jemma hadn't been able to muster much of any emotion in the moment.

Sometime throughout the proceedings, she'd begun to feel fuzzy, as though she were running on autopilot, watching these events unfold before her as though through a haze. Standing, finally, she had shaken Coulson's hand with what she'd hoped had been at least a mildly pleasant, professional smile, but one glance at the look of thinly veiled distress on Fitz' face before he abruptly turned away made Jemma think that she hadn't been as successful at hiding her emotions as she thought.

Coulson did not comment on her expression, though. Instead, in a compassionate yet firm voice, he continued, “Now, I have already assembled a team to make a trip to your apartment. Unfortunately, with the threat of danger and the short time limit we are working under, we will need to have your belongings retrieved and back to the Bus before our departure at eight tomorrow morning Eastern Standard Time.”

Jemma felt a dull flicker of curiosity as to where they were headed, but with an unprecedented display of apathy, decided that it wasn't worth the energy it would require to ask. It didn't much matter where she was going, and she would find out their destination soon enough, even if that time didn't come until they touched down on foreign soil.

Coulson was still speaking. “You've been through a bit of an ordeal today, so if you would prefer to rest, you can provide Mack with a list and description of the items you would like retrieved and he and his team can bring them here for you. If you are feeling up to it and would like to gather them personally, they would be happy to escort you and bring you and your things back here safel...”

“I'd like to go,” Jemma interrupted, rather abruptly she realized, a few moments after the fact. “Please,” she added awkwardly as an afterthought. She cleared her throat in an attempt to pull herself back from the brink of losing her composure.

“I'll let Mack know,” Coulson confirmed.

Jemma turned at his nod of dismissal, her legs propelling her forward out into the hallway as though they were being controlled by someone remotely. Even the stiffness in her left side when she stood hadn't truly registered in her brain. She felt Fitz follow her close behind, and absently led the way around a corner, until she realized that she had nowhere to go and wasn't confident with the layout of the plane even if she did. She stopped, turning towards Fitz, about to ask if he had any idea where she should go to meet up with Mack and the team, when the man in question broke the silence first.

“I understand if you want me to go away.”

Fitz' look of barely-contained dread surprised and confused Jemma, especially in her already foggy state of mind. She struggled through the mental cobwebs.

“What...go away? What are you talking about?”

Fitz looked as though he were gathering some kind of inner strength.

“You don't have to pretend, Jem...Simmons,” he caught himself, swallowing hard, “With what you were saying earlier, I'm sure you think I intended for this to happen, but it's just not true. There's no grand scheme. I never wanted you to lose your job or your story or any of it. I know you think I'm a horrible person, but you've got to believe that I would never _ever_ want that.”

Jemma just stared at him—this was so far from what was on her mind at the moment that she couldn't figure out where to begin. Fitz must have taken her silence as acknowledgement of the truth of his statement, however, because he steeled himself and turned to walk away.

“Wait, no...Fitz!” Jemma called desperately, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. “You've got it all wrong. I'm not angry with you.”

He looked at her disbelievingly.

Jemma tiredly rolled her eyes, chastising, “There you go again, thinking everything is always about you. Pretty egotistical, if you ask me.” She smiled gently in an effort to soften the harsh words.

A hint of a scowl came over Fitz' face, but she could tell it wasn't heartfelt. His face grew serious, his voice lowering with the admission, “It would make sense for you to. If it weren't for me, you would have gone about happily, written your series, and never been caught in this mess.”

Shaking her head, Jemma replied, “That's not true, and you know it. And I'll have you know I'm a little offended by that. You may have alerted me about the interview beforehand, but I'm positive that I would have noticed that something was off all by myself, thank you very much. And you know me—the story would have been juicy enough even without the added bonus of beating you to it. I would have researched it anyway and, who knows, I might've found myself in that building today with no warning, no help, and no way to get out. I probably would've been...well, anything could have happened.” She grew quiet at the thought that her parents might have been receiving a very different kind of call today. In comparison, losing her job and needing to relocate seemed like a trifling consequence. In her contemplation, she remembered something. With an earnest glance at Fitz, she spoke.

“I haven't said thank you yet, for coming for me...but... _thank you_.”

Her whispered words fell over them both. The moment felt electrified with some kind of invisible static, and Jemma had the strangest sensation that if she were to touch Fitz at that moment she would instantly be burned.

“Anytime,” Fitz managed after a few moments, his voice rough. “I'm glad that...that you weren't...,” his hands gestured towards her, but he couldn't seem to find words.

“Anytime,” he repeated, simply.

In the silence that followed that confession, Jemma realized that they were still standing in a hallway, lost, and remembered that she had somewhere to be.

“Oh, I better get...Fitz, do you happen to have any idea where Mack and the team might be leaving from? They're probably waiting for me.” She shifted from side to side in indecision.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, thinking, “They'll probably be waiting where we came in, near the ramp. I'm pretty sure it's that way.” He paused, gesturing ahead and to the right. “About your things. Simmons, I...”

“You can call me Jemma if you'd like.”

“Are you sure?” Fitz asked. Then it seemed to dawn on him that that was an odd response to the offer. But Jemma understood. They had so much history together, and they'd always referred to each other by their last names. It had kept a kind of distance between them that scholastic and professional rivalries like theirs required. Allowing Fitz to use her first name was like breaking down a wall, almost like a truce, of sorts. One that Jemma decided she wouldn't be opposed to anymore.

“I've been telling everyone else to call me by my first name. And you've known me much longer than they have. It seems silly for you not to.” Still, she couldn't deny that even now there was a niggling fear that he would decline. Flip a switch and use every bit of her newfound trust in him to throw her over. She quickly squashed that anxiety, however. Something told her that he wouldn't. That he wanted this as much as she did.

“Jemma,” he pronounced carefully, deliberately, and she was surprised to feel a strange thrill shoot through her at the sound. Her name sounded unusually beautiful when spoken in his accent. She smiled brightly at the unexpected pleasure she felt, and, in a quick burst of playfulness, carefully schooled her features.

“Glad that's settled, Leopold,” she replied, and, torn between abject horror and not wanting to immediately squash whatever progress they had just made, his expression tried to accommodate both feelings at once. Unfortunately for him, it just left him looking like a tie between a wide-eyed lemur and someone about to be sick. She couldn't help the snort that broke out.

“I'm just kidding,” she reassured, patting his upper arm, “Don't worry I won't ask to use your first name. I know how much you hate it.”

He wrinkled his nose in disgust, but let out a cautious laugh anyway. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Besides, Fitz suits you, somehow.” They began walking, Fitz guiding the way. Then suddenly, he began to ramble in an uncharacteristically manic sort of way.

“If you'd like, I can come help you pack up your things. Not if you don't want me to, though, I just thought...I'm not allowed to sleep for at least four more hours anyway, according to Trip and May. I might as well be useful, and staying busy will probably help keep me from getting tired, so I don't mind, really. That is, if you'd like the help. I understand if you don't, it being your personal stuff and all.”

Jemma had been trying to get a word in consistently for the last three-quarters or so of that short tirade.

“No, Fitz...I...I don't mind....You—You don't need to convince me...I...Fitz!,” her hands flew to her neck in amused frustration. “I would be grateful for your help. Thank you,” she finally managed, giving him a small smile. He twitched, as though wanting to check behind him to confirm that she was truly addressing him and not someone else, but then responded with a grin of his own before quickly adjusting back to a neutral expression and nodding solidly in confirmation. Jemma was surprised at the transformation that a smile had on his face, replacing his usual surly, discontented frown with a look of hesitant delight. Jemma had the sudden thought that he looked quite sweet, an adjective she never would have even considered possible regarding him before today.

And that is how, hours later, Jemma found herself staring at the remnants of her morning routine casually strewn across the flat where she had left them in a rush earlier, flanked on both sides by Fitz and a battle weary, but ever-vigilant, Mack. Two other agents had gone ahead of them into the adjoining bedroom and bathroom before signaling that they were all clear, as well. The relief Jemma felt at finding her home untouched, however, was instantly replaced with the disconcerting knowledge that this would be the last time she would enter it.

“Okay, Jemma,” Mack directed, “We've got people covering your fire escape, and I'm going to be outside this door. Call if you need anything. And Turbo? Don't do any heavy lifting. Not 'til that head of yours checks out.” Fitz nodded, looking tired, but resigned.

Mack exited, leaving the door cracked behind him, and she and Fitz were left alone in her dual living room-kitchen. Fitz seemed to be trying very hard to look casual, as though he weren't scanning her flat with great curiosity, but his eyes gave him away, and she saw them swiveling about, rapidly taking things in. His interest made Jemma feel unaccountably flustered and shy about her personal space. She wondered what her flat said about her, with its decidedly feminine lace curtains, obviously British décor, and slightly utilitarian tidiness.

Searching for anything to break the silence, she asked quietly, “So...why does Mack call you Turbo?”

Fitz jumped at the sound of her voice, his hand immediately flying to the back of his neck, rubbing absently, “Oh, that. Mack's a car guy. A few months ago, I modified a turbocharger for added torque and put it in his Camaro. Technically, I suppose I did _him_ the favor, but I may or may not have told him I would need a couple of days after the installation to do extensive testing for best performance.” His vision shifted inwardly with visible longing at the memory, “If I test drove it a few more times than usual, it was only in the spirit of safety, really. Anyway, he's called me that ever since.”

Jemma chuckled softly at the admission, picking up a cardboard box and setting it on a coffee table. She straightened, looking around at the neatly arranged knick knacks on her shelves, knowing that she needed to decide what to pack first. But instead of grabbing things off the shelves, she suddenly found herself immobile. As the last notes of her laughter vanished, it was replaced with an unwelcome and overwhelming wave of despair, and had she not been currently in the midst of it, she would have wondered why it had picked this moment to crash. The wave turned into a tsunami as she understood what it was to be genuinely scared about your future for the first time in her life.

Fitz noticed the change.

“Jemma? What...” he cleared his throat, seeming to catch himself, “Hey, you okay?”

She didn't turn, instead putting her head into her hands and lightly rubbing her forehead. Hearing the scrape of Fitz's shoes as he walked hesitantly across her rug to stand next to her, she turned slightly, realizing that the rumpled, injured man standing next to her was her only anchor to the reality she had existed in for a quarter of a lifetime. Suddenly, the dam broke, and out came a cascade of emotion she'd been trying to suppress for hours.

“I don't know,” she ground out shakily, working hard to keep her expression neutral despite the tears beginning to trickle mutinously down her cheeks, “I don't know. I've been trying not to overreact—deep breaths, repeating calm phrases and all of that—but everything I've been working towards is in complete shambles right now. My job, my house, my life all gone...,” Jemma worked herself up into a frenzy, and Fitz was getting the brunt of it.

“What else could possibly happen today? Should I ring up mum and dad next and ask if they've been harboring any life-altering family secrets? Because now's the time. It would just be the icing on the cake at this point, really.” She brought her hands up to wipe messily at her cheeks and nose before they fell to her sides in defeat.

Fitz's look was somewhere between concern and the kind of terror one feels when staring at a ticking time bomb. If she hadn't been so upset, Jemma might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Fitz hesitated, but then then he was moving towards her, his arms coming up to wrap around her.

Jemma wasn't consciously aware of what was happening until her face was buried in the somewhat stiff cotton of the new t-shirt he was wearing, identical to her own, as Fitz' arms tightened securely around her back.

Jemma's arms continued dangling limply for a moment, but eventually (and if anyone were to question her in the future, she would swear they did it of their own accord) her hands found their way up the sides of his body, sliding around his waist and crossing over each other at his back, sliding up his spine. She could feel a slight shiver go through him and she recoiled a little, remembering his injuries and worried that she'd hurt him. But he only shifted closer, mumbling something that sounded generically comforting and she relaxed again. Her fingers gripped the material of his shirt as more tears formed over the crest of her eyelids, falling onto the fabric beneath them. Jemma gave a shuddering sigh. She should be ashamed of this, of showing weakness and vulnerability, especially in front of Fitz—she usually hated anything that made her seem less competent and could get her labeled as the emotional female stereotype that she was trying so hard to defy—but right now she didn't care. In fact, she had to admit it was kind of nice to just let go and be comforted. She had crossed some kind of line today. Catapulted way beyond it, in fact. And the only thought that she could form in her mind in response to her own natural inhibitions were ' _Screw it. I need this'_. She nuzzled deeper into Fitz's neck, and they began to rock slightly back and forth.

She wasn't sure how long they stood there, but Fitz neither moved nor spoke until Jemma had quieted. He had to be uncomfortable—they were both covered in bumps and bruises, not to mention his head injury—but he didn't complain. When she raised her head slightly from her position on his shoulder, her eyes had dried—she had made sure of that (she couldn't get over that little bit of pride)—and for the first time was unsurprised to find Fitz' expression serious, earnest, and without any hint of the smugness she had trained herself to always expect from him. She was getting used to the Fitz in front of her. The one who protected her in the middle of danger and chaos and bickered with her harmlessly, and the one who she was beginning to realize she would miss after all of this was over. The one she wouldn't mind getting to know better.

Fitz slowly, hesitantly, began speaking.

“I know you probably won't believe me, but, SHIELD, they're good people. And Coulson's one of the best. He'll make sure that what you're doing is going to make a difference in the world. Just, maybe in a different way than you imagined doing before. Isn't that why you said you got into journalism in the first place? 'To bring as much truth and justice as I can to a medium that's filled with bias'?”

She straightened, drawing back from him a little more, and raised her eyebrows at both his horrible attempt at her accent and the fact that he had just quoted something she had said over five years ago completely verbatim.

Fitz was sheepish.

“I know you think I never listened, before, when we were in school, but I did. I just can't sit still when I do. Always have to be fiddling with something.” She could feel his fingers tapping reflexively where they still sat on her back. Suddenly, she realized that their bodies were still intertwined, and Fitz must have, too. Their arms loosened and they swiftly stepped apart. Jemma decided that the best way to play off the awkward moment was to pretend that it had never happened.

Jemma huffed ungracefully, continuing along Fitz' train of thought. “I knew you must have at some point because you never took notes during class or interviews, but you would always do so well on assignments. I always wondered if you carried a recording device, even when they weren't allowed. I was convinced that you were cheating your way through your degree.”

Fitz began fiddling with his ear nervously.

“I, em, well, you aren't technically far off, I guess. I mean, I have a good memory to start, and I never used a 'recording' device per say, according to the actual, literal definition outlined by the Handbook of Student Conduct, but I may have built a small machine that captures residual sound waves using an etching mechanism which can be reverse engineered to play the noise back after digital conversion...so, yeah, basically a recorder. I told myself I was just being smart and that anyone who had any kind of intelligence and skill would have built one for themselves, too.” He gave a huff of sardonic laughter, “I would use it to record classes, like you said. I thought that maybe it would impress y...people.”

Jemma stared hard at Fitz' slip of the tongue, but in her post-weepy, exhausted daze, she wasn't sure that she had read him correctly, so she didn't press the issue. As for the recording device, just yesterday she would have been indignant at his confession that he had broken university rules and secretly jealous that her foremost competitor had managed to build himself the kind of advantage that she never could have. But now she was beginning to realize that Fitz hadn't done these things to be spiteful. She was starting to wonder if he had done these things because he had never fit in.

She'd always assumed from his haughtiness that he had wanted it that way, enjoyed being a loner. But now she could tell that it had really bothered him. And that he hadn't been finding ways to break the rules because he needed the extra help to come out ahead; conversely, he was so naturally good at this kind of work that he'd probably been bored. And Jemma knew from her parent's stories of her own childhood shenanigans that bored and smart are never a good combination.

A glance down at the boxes beneath them reminded Jemma that they should be packing, and she quietly asked Fitz if he would begin moving the contents of a shelf holding some of her favorite books into the open storage container. She moved over to her desk, and they began working silently, Jemma grateful for the chance to process her changing impression of the journalist beside her.

With the final vestiges of her former bitterness towards him melting away, she finally admitted to herself that her self-esteem and obsessive drive for success had probably been the catalyst for a good portion of the animosity between them.

The first day that she had heard him speak in class, she had known that he was going to be a problem. That for the first time in her life she wasn't going to breeze by at the top of her class by a landslide. She had met someone who was just as intellectually inclined as she was. And the fact that he seemed to alternate between brusquely snubbing her attempts to talk to him and rubbing his success in her face every chance he could get didn't help matters. She'd told herself that he didn't deserve his skills.

Every time she read a story of his, though, she cursed to herself because the truth was apparent: he was a better journalist than she was. He may not have her impeccable writing style, but he was fearless—blunt, to the point and able to find and push the shock value on any story to make it a must-read. It wasn't so much about the words with him, but about the process and the content. She had never felt able to break rules or push the limitations of assignments, so she found her only strength in her ability to research more thoroughly than anyone else, read people, and use her non-threatening nature to her advantage. She had become successful, but not artistic and brilliant. She was just peddling information from others. Fitz came up with it on his own. And, standing there, carefully wrapping the few pictures of herself and her parents that were on display in crumpled newspaper and placing them into the box at her feet, Jemma finally admitted what she had always secretly feared, but had never wanted to admit to herself.

If their lives had continued on the same paths they had been on until today and one of them had managed the honor of winning a Pulitzer, it would not have been her. It would have been Fitz.

“Maybe it's for the best that this all happened,” Jemma blurted, suddenly.

Slightly alarmed at both the volume of her voice and this sudden change of pace, Fitz looked up.

“What do you mean?”

Physically, mentally, and emotionally drained, Jemma had had enough. She couldn't keep pretending to herself anymore, and she thought that maybe if she got all of this off her chest it could help her begin to move on. To stop clinging to the way she had always seen herself and the picture-perfect future she had always thought she would have.

She began to form her words carefully.

“Maybe I wasn't meant to be a journalist. I'm beginning to think that maybe I'm not as good of a writer as I always thought I was. I think perhaps I've been lying to myself. To my parents. To everyone. Maybe this is just saving me from prolonging the inevitable. Maybe it's better that I'm being forced to start over now, before I got too far into the career to turn back.”

Fitz stared at her disbelievingly, mouth agape.

“What in the hell are you on about? _I'm_ supposed to be the one with the head injury.”

Jemma rolled her eyes. “This is serious, Fitz. You've seen my work. Your writing was always more innovative than mine – more intuitive and confident and hard-hitting. It's blunt and shocking. It's more creative and people respond to it more. You deserved every award you got. Maybe more. I was always secretly surprised when I beat you out for anything. I'm sure it was only because the language was more carefully crafted and,” she couldn't help the air quotes that came off of the tips of her fingers, “'appropriate'.”

Jemma's voice was quiet, subdued. “That's what I'm good at—appropriate. Dependable. Solid. Steady. I hear those words all the time and they are synonyms for one thing and one thing only: Boring. I can always get my angle and I am confident that I have some of the best information out there on one thing or another, but then I read your articles and realize that you would have written the story ten times better in half the time.” She rested a moment, before adding wryly, “If you weren't so prickly with everyone, you would have surpassed me ages ago.”

She moved into her room, Fitz following closely behind, and she began to fold her clothing carefully into bags, Fitz holding it open for her as he mulled over the things she had just said.

“First of all, that's complete bollocks. Second, I am not prickly.” He paused. “Is that how you saw me in uni?”

Jemma didn't want to offend him, but she wanted him to understand. “I guess it just...it always seemed like you didn't care about things. Like anything you didn't like was beneath you, and anyone else who might happen to like it was, too.”

“Hmph,” his huff of indignation started out frustrated, but then he sighed, considering, “Yeah, well, my dad taught me that.”

Jemma thought back to every Parents Week and student exhibition. “I never met your dad. I remember seeing your mum at that one awards ceremony, but she was alone, I think.”

Fitz spoke begrudgingly, and Jemma realized that she had struck a nerve.

“No, you wouldn't have, because he left a long time ago. No idea where he is. He stopped writing when I was nine.” Again, Jemma recognized the feigned casualness that she was coming to understand was Fitz' primary defense mechanism. She let the topic go, but carefully filed that information away for future knowledge.

As Jemma proceeded to move towards her dresser and begin foisting jumpers on him, Fitz seemed to contemplate something.

“That awards ceremony you were talking about is a prime example, though, of why you're not a boring writer and how I'm not better than you.”

With this, Jemma was sure he had lost his mind. “What are you talking about? You _won the entire thing_. I remember—I was there.”

That had been the time that Jemma had first realized that no matter how hard she worked, she couldn't hold a candle to Fitz' spontaneous genius. Fitz had published a scathing review of various pieces of technology used by high-level information analysts in the CIA, including fully-developed schematics for improving said machinery and, to top it all off, an extensive criticism of the political and bureaucratic structure the entire agency is based on. It was an entry into the competition that, from what Jemma could determine, had been a last-minute piece thrown together over two weeks of hyper-caffeinated insomnia. Granted, it was brilliant, hyper-caffeinated insomnia, not that she would have ever admitted it to anyone at the time.

Fitz had been touted as the Break-Out Journalist of the Decade, his work had been confiscated by the awards chairmen as too provocative, controversial, and accurately-detailed to be released to the public at large, and the Scot had solidified himself as a noted—though with slight disapproval from some—individual in the journalistic community. His name had gone on a plaque. And Jemma's two whole months of in-depth research and journalistic campaign for medical advancement in Uganda had taken the position of runner-up.

“I may have won, but at the end of the day my mum couldn't talk about anything but your articles. She wouldn't admit it to me, but I'm sure she thought it was complete nonsense that I beat you out for the award.”

“What do you mean?” Jemma was surprised, and couldn't decide if she should feel flattered or not.

“My mum wasn't much for technology until I got into it. Her family grew up in the Outer Hebrides and did things pretty traditionally when she was a kid. My uncle still tells the story about her first time using an electric kettle when she went to uni on the mainland. Growing up, she let me do all of the handiwork around the house.

“She could tell from what others were saying that I had done something new in technological research, and she was proud of me, but it was your work that she connected with. She said that what you were writing about would impact the lives of so many people. That work like that could end suffering.” He cracked a sardonic smile. “You might not be able to see it, but I'm sure that it has. Your work got published. Other people got to see it. Mine's in a vault somewhere, wasting away.”

When he put it that way, Jemma could see where he was coming from. And his admission made her feel more pride over that series than she'd ever had before.

“People like your writing, and they like you because of it,” he finished, “Mine only makes people—what did my editor call it--'unwilling and defensive'.”

“Well, that may be true, but people are only like that because you've called them out on something and you're usually right.”

The last thing on earth that Jemma Simmons had ever thought she would be doing is defending Leopold Fitz's own work to him. At her words, though, she noticed that he seemed to sit up a little taller and that his chest might have puffed out a little in pride.

He gave a small laugh of derision, “Yeah, well, I think my bosses still wish that I would try harder to keep myself in good graces with a few of the companies I've written product reviews for. I think I've lost us a client or two.

“And mine wish that I would think outside of the box more,” she rebutted, pondering. “So, what you're basically saying is, if we were one person we would be the perfect reporter?”

Jemma quirked up an eyebrow, and was rewarded with a smile in return.

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Fitz looked pleased.

“Well, maybe...” she broached hesitantly, “...maybe one day we'll collaborate. Work together on a project. See how it goes. See if we can get through it without biting each other's heads off.”

A hopeful expression crept timidly over Fitz' face. He cleared his throat. It seemed he had a habit of doing that around her.

“Um, you know when we were in the closet today, before the bomb went off? And you had said something about us being friends and you asked me to think about it?”

Jemma felt unexplainably nervous at the memory and at Fitz' response and the explanation that she had never heard.

Fitz continued, “I've actually thought about it before, I mean, I've wanted us to be...friends...for a long time, actually. And with you working with SHIELD, well, I'll be around a bit. I've been working remotely for months, and I have a feeling that after today Coulson's going to want to keep a closer eye on me, as well.”

“I think maybe, that now,” Jemma spoke carefully, “Now we could try to be friends. Officially. See how it goes.”

“Officially,” Fitz echoed, “Yeah, that'd be...that'd be good.” He went to shove the hands into the pockets of his jeans until he realized that he was wearing the SHIELD issued sweats, and was forced to prop his hands on his back instead.

“Thank you for helping me pack. I really appreciate it.”

Jemma didn't know what part of her decided to lean up and give Fitz a kiss on the cheek instead of a more appropriate handshake, but she found herself leaning forward, her lips rapidly approaching the slightly scruffy shadow of facial hair that the day had left.

Fitz, however, was apparently startled by this abrupt move, turning towards her automatically, and Jemma felt her lips connecting more with the corner of his mouth than they did her intended target.

It was like a small shock of lightning. A really unexpected, confusing, pleasurable bolt of static electricity.

Jemma jumped back.

“I, um...if you want grab Mack, I'll just grab my toiletries and finish up in here. Then we can head back to the Bus. It's getting late. Or is it early now?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Fitz mumbled distractedly, and left her to gather her more personal items, his hand immediately drawn to the place where her lips had just been as he made his way out.

Coulson had told Jemma to only bring things of hers back to the Bus that were irreplacable. Items she absolutely couldn't part with. As she closed the last box and realized just how little she would be taking with her and how much of the physical aspects of life she would be leaving behind, she was struck with how little of her old life she actually required, and how much of what truly mattered were the people and places and relationships and memories that she would be taking with her.

Jemma had no idea where this new adventure would take her. But for the first time, she couldn't wait to find out.

 


	7. Epilogue: The Third Degree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me just preface this by warning you that if I were to say everything that's on my mind right now, this author's note would definitely surpass the actual chapter in length--which is saying something, as this epilogue is So. Freaking. Long. So, to spare you the painful act of skimming through a bunch of gratuitous and unnecessary stream of consciousness, I'm going to just make a list...and check it twice. (Sorry. Seriously. The pun was just sitting there and it's that time of year and I never actually promised that I was a cool person in real life, so...)
> 
> 1\. This chapter marks my first complete fic. Ever. Which is huge for me. I'm great at starting things....not so great at finishing them (though if you ever ask me, I'll swear I'm great at follow-through).
> 
> Anyway, I am so grateful to anyone and everyone who has commented, supported, encouraged, or even read just one chapter of this story that I had originally intended to be somewhere around 3000 words max, but somehow ended up at 35K+. amandajoyce113, can I just say how much I appreciate the fact that you hung in there with extremely unreliable updates over the course of an entire year? I've told you before, and I will tell you again – it was a pleasure writing for you. You're fantastic. I hope your secret santa this year is a one-and-done kind of deal.
> 
> 2\. At one point, I think I joked about getting this fic done 'before Thanksgiving'. I have learned my lesson: I should never joke. I am not funny.
> 
> 3\. In addition to Amanda, I wanted to give a shout-out to three of the sweetest and most amazingly consistent reviewers: StarryDreamer, notapepper, and Eienvine. You guys are amazing fic writers yourselves, and the fact that you paused multiple times to read and critique mine means so much. Also, to 'VR' and 'CK' who asked specifically about this epilogue. Thank you, thank you, thank you. This is for you.

_10 months later_

Dr. Victor Conrad had heard rumors that a vigilante group was trying to resurrect SHIELD. He had even heard tell that they used some pretty bizarre measures to capture and interrogate their subjects, which had automatically brought to his mind some of the more ruthless methods of physical and chemical warfare. But this...

...this was bizarre in a very different kind of way. The painfully humorous kind.

Wrists shackled to a metal chair in a room with black honeycomb walls, Victor was musing over the inconvenience of being duped into walking aboard an active SHIELD aircraft. One minute he had been lecturing at a conference in Belize, and next the attractive golden-haired woman who had been assigned as his guide, translator, and security detail for the trip had led him straight into the hands of one Phil Coulson. Victor was already plotting the report he would be sending to his superiors, which would end with a strongly worded demand that the person who allowed such a disgusting oversight to occur be hunted down and eliminated.

As for his own predicament, Victor wasn't worried. AIM had taken great care to instill evasion and escape training into all of their leading scientists and top agents, not that he’d needed them much before. He had never come across an adversary that he couldn’t outmaneuver verbally. Agencies that aligned themselves with the US government and its stifling bureaucracy were notoriously easy to skirt.

He estimated that he would have control of the situation and a signed document granting his freedom in under an hour, even if SHIELD assigned their most threatening agent with the task of squeezing a confession out of him. Then, when they released him, any physical manifestation of violence that SHIELD had enacted against him would be immediately used as leverage to get them shut down for good. Victor might even get a promotion for this.

Therefore, when, instead of the shrewd, hardened agent Dr. Conrad had been expecting, a small female in a patterned blouse entered the room rear-first, he actually had to work hard to rearrange his disbelieving expression back into a neutral one. Thankfully, the woman in question appeared to be unaware of his struggle, as she remained halfway in and out of the doorway, mumbling exasperatedly to what Victor assumed must be another person out in the hall, unseen by him due to his confinement and position relative to the entrance.

When the rest of her body finally entered the room, rolling a small cart in after her, the door finally closed, and she turned towards him, revealing delicate features that were anything but intimidating. Not that she could’ve maintained any guise of threat after a glance at the contents of the cart.

He had been expecting torture devices. She was carrying a tea set.

Victor watched as she placed the tray on the table between them, grabbed the steaming kettle, and poured three mugs of hot water, before placing an unmarked satchel of tea leaves in each. She garnished the steeping mixtures with a drizzle of honey, though the last cup she placed back on the tray and covered, ostensibly to preserve the heat.

As she slid a straw into one of the remaining mugs and moved across the table in his direction, he was noted a slight shake to her hands. Task completed, she leaned back and took a deep breath, visibly gathering herself. So she was nervous. Victor smirked inwardly, mentally reducing his estimated time until freedom to forty minutes, tops. That was fine. If SHIELD didn’t think him enough of a threat to send anyone more up to this task, then on their own heads be it. This whole situation was becoming more of an irritation than anything else—a waste of his time and energy.

Interrupting his thoughts, the young woman finally spoke, her first words a quiet warning.

“The water's just boiled, but I'm sure in five minutes or so it will be palatable.” She settled herself into the chair opposite him and took a hesitant sip of her own tea.

Victor had no intention of sampling anything SHIELD wanted to give him, but he _was_ surprised to hear the soft English lilt in her words when they were spoken. This whole setup was becoming more and more implausible. Before he could come to any conclusions, however, she grabbed the tablet beside her and made a few quick swipes.

“I'll cut right to the chase, Dr. Conrad. You work for HYDRA, you have colleagues, and I need to know who they are and where to find them,” she enunciated crisply, a little too crisply to be entirely natural.

Victor had to give it to her, she was putting on quite a show. Of course her opening had given him a perfect excuse to feign unawareness, and he didn't hesitate to do so.

“You are correct, in that I do have colleagues, Miss...,” he trailed off.

“Simmons,” she helpfully provided.

“...Miss Simmons.” he gave her a bland smile. “However, if you've done any research at all, you'll know that I work for a company called Advanced Idea Mechanics, not this HYDRA you speak of. And if you are attempting to gain information from me that will allow your... _agency..._ ,” Victor allowed his lips to curl in disdain, “...to inhibit the development of beneficial scientific discoveries, then I am afraid I cannot help you. I will not cooperate with terrorist actions.”

Her eyebrows shot into the air.

“I have no doubt your developments are _beneficial_...,” she countered, the same sarcasm that he had just used dripping off of her own tongue, “...but for whom, exactly?”

If she wanted to feign confidence, that was her prerogative, but given her earlier nerves, he suspected it wouldn’t be difficult to undermine with a few carefully placed insinuations. “I know that you are young, but surely you've been privy to at least the most widely publicized current affairs,” Victor condescended, “the company I work for is the current leader in the R&D field, and the only one successfully working to combat the new perils our planet is facing—aliens, diseases, phenomena that cannot be described. I repeat, if SHIELD, and you by association, are attempting to stand in the way of progress and the wellbeing of humanity, I will not assist you. Do with me what you will.”

“Your high horse is quite a beautiful one, I'll give you that,” she replied with a small smile, unshaken. Victor was impressed. He'd pegged her as an easy target, and thought he might have her blushing, stuttering, and on the defensive right from the start.

She continued, “Regardless, as accomplished as your curriculum vitae is and as benevolent as your company appears to be, it doesn't change the fact that there is something extremely volatile lurking underneath, does it? And you would know all about that, wouldn't you, what with your current attempts to recreate Project Rebirth?”

She paused.

“Your tea should be cool enough now. Would you like to try some?”

At such a casual mention of the operation he and his superiors had taken great pains to keep hidden, Victor had stiffened, his mind reeling.

He retorted, bitterly, “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’ve made a grave error.”

“Have I?” Miss Simmons continued. She appeared to start, then, glancing at the cart once more, proclaimed innocently, “Whoops. I almost forgot.”

She produced a napkin-covered plate, revealing its contents as she placed it delicately in the center of the table.

“Would you like a pecan sandie? I heard they were your favorite.” The smile that she gave him was just a little too perfect.

At that, Victor's blood ran cold as childhood memories began to surface unwillingly. _How could she possibly know that? The only person in the world who ever served him those was..._

“Your grandmother is quite a lovely woman,” the Simmons girl said, “And of course you are aware that, with her early onset Alzheimer's, she has good days and bad. I was upset to hear that you never visit her. But I suppose that you'd already taken what you needed from her, and any interaction would undermine your efforts to keep your past in the past and your secrets a secret.”

Victor's grip on the chair had tightened until his knuckles were white as he tried to figure out where she could have possibly learned all of this.

She tilted her head, changing tacts as she observed him. “I believe, Dr. Conrad, that you are under the mistaken impression that I am here to interrogate you. I assure you that is not the case.”

She gestured casually at the tablet. “I'll grant you, your paper trail was almost impeccable. You took great pains to destroy any record of your connection to your mother's side of the family. At first glance, this appeared to be nothing more than a byproduct of a run-of-the-mill familial dispute, but, unluckily for you, I _excel_ at research.” Her eyes shone with pride even as they hardened, her voice still deceptively cheerful.

“It just so happens that one of my best friends is a brilliant hacker and finds restoring archived files online to be quite easy. Once I told her where to search, it was only a hop, skip, and a jump to discovering your true history and taking advantage of your grandmother’s visitation hours to pay her a visit.”

Victor felt paralyzed, his hands grasping for anything they could find to hold onto in an attempt to calm himself.

“She talked about you and the rest of your family often. However, it was odd that, when she was at her most lucid, she could only talk about needing a pill...one of her 'small, purple pills in the cabinet'. Over and over she kept repeating it. But when I looked at her medical history, the only medication she was currently prescribed by her physician was the anticonvulsant Gabapentin, to treat her nerve pain and restless legs.”

The agent Simmons looked straight at Victor.

“Gabapentin is and has always been a white or yellow pill. Never purple.”

Victor felt his body begin to shake minutely.

“It took a while, but finally the pieces began to come together. You needed money for your research, but you had fallen into hard times. So you switched out her medication with one that you created yourself, a mixture of chemicals that would induce confusion similar to early Alzheimer's, allowing you to gain power of attorney over your gran and, in addition, ownership of her money and land, of which she had a great deal.”

Victor felt his body continue to betray him, sweat beading at his forehead. But on she went.

“And it was at that property that we found a large, white farmhouse containing, what else, but a dusty old bottle of purple pills in the back corner of a kitchen cabinet, of which testing confirmed our hypothesis of chemical abuse. That fact alone would have given us the leverage we needed to bring you in. It was pure triumph, however, when we searched the grounds and located the cabin where you had meticulously stored hard copy files of all of your, shall we say, shenanigans—past, present, and future.”

She turned the tablet in his direction, and Victor saw image after image of his own notebooks, blueprints, and prototypes flash before him, handwriting clear and authorship undeniable. Victor swallowed his hatred for the tiny woman in front of him. Who did this girl think she was, Agent Carter herself?

“So, you see, my purpose here is not to interrogate you, but to inform you of your imminent demise. You see, many others before you have sat in this very chair, none of which HYDRA bothered to extract. Apparently your superiors believe you to be expendable.”

“You lie.” Victor's teeth grated as he spat the words.

The agent's expression was laced with infuriating compassion.

“I am skilled at several things, but lying is not one of them. Now, we've arranged for your grandmother to receive the best care possible, attempting to undo the damage you have wrought on her mind and keeping her as comfortable as she can be given the circumstances.”

“And me?” Victor sneered to cover this unfamiliar feeling. Fear. He had never believed that it would come to this, had never imagined that he would be reduced to using it as a way out, but there was no denying that the situation had escalated out of his control. He readied himself to enact HYDRA's final emergency protocol.

The young woman took another sip of her tea, saying, “You will be transferred to a specialized containment facility, guarded by both SHIELD and a small, trusted faction of the United States government. Your comfort level and freedom there can be increased, however, if you tell us useful information about your colleagues or HYDRA's leaders.”

Victor leaned forward slowly and whispered, “Go to hell.”

And he bit down hard onto the small bulge inside of his cheek.

\-----

Jemma sighed as the man in front of her began to convulse, his head tilting back and his eyes bulging.

_Not again._

She had been hoping that Dr. Conrad, with all of the emphasis his research had placed on logic and rational thought, would be more reasonable and less prone to rash action than some of the others had been. She had hoped she would be able to coerce some information out of him without resorting to the usual measures.

Now familiar with this routine, she swiftly grabbed the black plastic case that was conveniently stored on the bottom shelf of her cart and walked around the table, opening the lid to reveal a familiar centipede-shaped device.

She was proud of how far they had come with improving and repurposing the original technology.

Her theoretical study of intravenous delivery systems combined with Fitz’s experimental designs had won them positions working with SHIELD’s science department on an advisory basis, which they were pleasently surprised to find they both really enjoyed.

Jemma carefully lifted the prototype. Trying to position it correctly on a currently restrained and seizing Dr. Conrad, however, was proving more difficult than usual. Whether intentional or not, he had somehow managed to form a death grip on the armrest, preventing Jemma from accessing the underside of his wrist where the last two segments of the centipede needed to be inserted.

With a huff, she blew errant strands of hair from her face and turned towards the camera she knew was hidden in the wall, intending to motion for Fitz to join her from the room down the hall where he was monitoring the exchange on his tablet. As was occurring more and more frequently, though, he had anticipated her needs and was already walking into the room, the heavy metal door slamming in his wake. He crouched down next to her automatically, taking hold of the poisoned scientist’s fingers and prising them off of the edge of the chair, allowing Jemma to insert the final needles. Fitz couldn’t hide his cringe at the sight—he had a thing about medical procedures, they made him queasy—and Jemma spared him a glance of apology as she grabbed her tablet off the table to start the makeshift IV’s injection cycle.

The light visible through the liquid in each segment of the machine changed from red to green as the infusion began, and she gave a deep sigh of relief. Fitz stood, wincing as he stretched out his legs, but then smirking at the exasperated eye roll Jemma delivered in Conrad’s general direction. His expression turned soft, almost fond.

“You know, it’s completely mental to be disappointed in a criminal for not being upstanding enough to accept the punishment he deserves.” Fitz sent the still-twitching scientist a dark look.

“That's not...,” she paused, searching for the appropriate response to sum up her feelings, “I don't...it's not like I expect them to just sit quietly and take it or anything, but honestly, where’s the ‘pride amongst thieves’ that all the stories told us about when we were children?”

Fitz chuckled darkly, “Maybe if he’d _only_ been a thief and not a lying, stealing, torturing murderer he would have held to those standards.”

Jemma contemplated the criminal in front of her. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for us to do but wait until he comes to.” She gestured to the chair she had vacated, “I made a cup of tea for May to drink once she was called for, but with this little setback it'll be cold by the time she’s needed. Would you like it?”

“Yeah, sure, might as well,” Fitz replied, running his hand through his hair, “I was on a roll with the new write-up before this git rudely interrupted. Had a great turn of phrase going and everything.”

“Oh, really?” Jemma arched her eyebrow as she handed him the mug of tea, “Because a little birdie told me that you never seem to get much of anything else done when you’re monitoring my interrogations.”

He lifted the mug to his mouth quickly, but Jemma could see the telltale signs of embarrassment come over his features. His neck and ears were growing quite pink.

“Oh!” she realized belatedly, “Here. You’re going to want this.”

She held the bottle of honey towards him, and he gratefully accepted, his face screwed up slightly from the bitterness of May’s preferred flavor of tea. He moved the bottle in circles above his glass, an unnecessarily large amount of the sweet, gold liquid drizzling steadily into his glass. Jemma looked on bemusedly. She had never met anyone with quite such a sweet tooth.

He replied,“Yeah, well. I don’t know how you do it, being locked in a room with criminals and assassins and god knows what else.” He paused, murmuring. “And tell Skye that I do get some writing done. Sometimes.”

Jemma ignored feeling of warmth that grew in her chest at this admission. She tried to stifle it. His distraction during her interrogation practices could mean any number of things, the most likely being that he took his duties seriously. Not that he was distracted because it was her. She chose instead to address the more obvious issue.

“You do realize the irony of that statement, don’t you? Seeing as you’re now standing in the room _with_ me and the criminal.”

“Yeah, well, you needed help. And he's pretty harmless at the moment. Can't do much of anything until he regains consciousness.” A comfortable silence settled in the room, and Jemma couldn’t help sneaking glances at the adorably rumpled man in front of her. She took in the wrinkled button up, his jumper that had gone askew, the ink stain on his right hand where he had smudged his writing, and the curl or two that hadn't quite gone into place when he got ready this morning. Unbidden, she felt her heart speeding up with a sudden desire to step closer towards him and smooth these things out herself, allowing herself to touch him under the pretense of fussing over his appearance. She caught herself before she did something that could potentially cause confusion and distance in their relationship, reminding herself that she was still on the clock and currently being recorded for future evaluation. This was really getting out of control. She needed to get herself in check, but his next statement didn’t help matters.

“You did great today. I don’t think he caught any of your bluffs. And did you see his face when you brought out the biscuits? I thought he might faint straight away.”

Jemma couldn't help but beam at his praise. It was still such a novel experience, complimenting and being complimented by the person you had formerly despised. The past seemed like such a long time ago now. Like a different life. She supposed that, technically, it was.

She settled into a chair. “I was so nervous that I had guessed wrong. His gran wasn’t lucid enough to tell me anything personal about him, but I spotted a new bag of those biscuits lying around every time I was there, and I knew it couldn't just be a coincidence. It was worth a shot.”

They sipped at their tea for the next half hour, casually discussing Jemma's current research and the article Fitz was in the middle of writing when Victor Conrad began to groan, shifting, until finally he lifted his head, eyes open and becoming aware of his surroundings.

“Showtime,” Fitz said, nodding at her, “I’ll let you get back to it.” He stood in preparation to leave, but Jemma reached out and grabbed his wrist at the last second.

“Actually Fitz, if you'd like, I think it might be nice to give Dr. Conrad a little demonstration of the ways his ideas have already been implemented into SHIELD's technology. Perhaps this time you'd like to do the honors.” She stared at him meaningfully, willing him to understand.

His eyebrows rose. “Does that mean I get to...?” He mimed shooting a gun, and Jemma rolled her eyes again, but nodded, a small smile on her face. He grinned a mile wide and abruptly turned and left the room. Jemma reverted her attention back to the mostly-conscious scientist who was now pulling against his restraints.

“Welcome back, Dr. Conrad. I would say that I hope you’re not in too much pain, but that would be a lie and, as I said, those are not a strength of mine, though I’ve been improving.”

The man blinked slowly, as though to clear a spinning head, focusing first on the device currently embedded in his arm and then at her, accusingly.

“What did you do to me?!” he struggled to say, his voice slightly muffled by a swollen tongue.

One of the side effects of the antidote. Unavoidable.

“You mean saving your life? SHIELD believes first and foremost in justice served for a person's actions, and you've not yet been cooperative,” she explained.

“As for the device, I assume there's no need to explain it to you, seeing as you have been using it for months to test your various experiments. Although, it functions quite differently when counteracting the effects of poison. It provides a continuous feed to your blood system through which our serum can be delivered in controlled doses. I think it will be quite useful in the medical field someday.”

Jemma began to walk slowly back and forth as she talked. She loved this part of her job the best, getting to shove it in HYDRA's face that not only are they going to be taken down, but their hard work will be put to a much better and more benevolent use in the future.

“And that's just the tip of the iceberg,” she stated, glancing at the door as Fitz re-entered behind her. “Many of your designs will be going open source for the advancement of greater mankind. It appears that your company's goals will be fulfilled after all.” She couldn't resist a dazzling smile.

Now at her side, Fitz added, “We'll keep a few toys for ourselves, of course, like the one that I have here.” Fitz indicated to the small gun he was currently cradling in his hands, “It’s already in its third phase of development.”

He slid his finger into the trigger. Conrad flinched in his seat.

“Don't worry, when I shoot you it won't hurt. See, I reverse engineered the aerosol dispersion gun that we found in those crates you were hiding—which, by the way was not the best mechanism to use for biological warfare, very inefficient—and redesigned the containment tube to emit a strong pulse that will allow us to shoot a vaporized material with great accuracy. In essence, a non-lethal weapon that can be repurposed into whatever we need at the moment. For example, today we'll be using it to deliver truth serum.”

Conrad looked upon them, stony and silent, apparently deciding that not saying a word was the wiser choice in this scenario.

Jemma sighed at the obvious exaggeration, “How many times have we discussed this, Fitz?” She hastened to correct him, “It's not a truth serum, per say, but it works in the same way that alcohol or hypnosis does, by lessening your inhibitions, making you more susceptible to suggestion. Making you want to talk about anything and everything.” She paused in her explanation at the horrified look on Conrad’s face.

“As I said before, this wasn’t a proper interrogation. I’m just practicing. Once the drug kicks in, Agent Melinda May will be conducting the questioning portion of the session with you. Perhaps you've heard of her. She's more commonly known as 'The Cavalry'.”

Conrad’s eyes grew slightly at the title. His breathing grew ragged.

“Can we get you anything before the investigation starts?” Jemma asked, sweetly.

“Like a conscience?,” Fitz murmured under his breath, earning him a light nudge of reprimand which Jemma felt was required, though she was inclined to agree with him in this situation.

“Just shoot me and get it over with,” Conrad spat, bracing himself.

Fitz' smile looked a lot like a grimace as he replied, “My pleasure. This is for my friend Mack, who was injured by one of your poisonous splinter bombs. And the less fortunate of your test subjects over the years.”

With that, Jemma watched him raise the gun, carefully aim, and fire.

\-----

“Eight captured HYDRA agents so far and, _still_ , no one drinks the tea. Why?” Jemma grumbled as they wove their way through the now familiar hallways of the bus, “I mean, seven of the eight have just ended up poisoning themselves anyway. And wipe that smirk off your face, Fitz. It's unbecoming.”

He just laughed, “I told you, it's because they think you're lying about it. You know the saying, 'Better the devil you know than the devil you don't'.”

“If we were back in the UK, it would be the other way round. Live by the tea, die by the tea,” she managed around the bite of biscuit currently in her mouth. They rounded a corner into the main sitting area.

“Do you want the rest of these?” she held up the plate, “Don't look at me all innocent like that, I know you do. I've got to get back to the lab to help test the new compounds.”

“Yeah, and I better get back to the article. Will you have some time tomorrow to edit the first draft? It's going to be pretty salacious stuff, that, what with outing an AIM scientist as HYDRA and all.”

“Sure, I've scheduled a couple of hours of free time tomorrow. But will you even have it finished by then? You haven't forgotten about our movie night tonight, have you?” Jemma was suddenly worried.

Fitz gave her a crooked grin that had long since become one of her favorites, “Of course not. After everything I had to go through to nab the large screen without any interruptions, I'm not likely to, now would I?”

Jemma smiled, inwardly relieved that he hadn't accidentally double booked himself again like he had done a few weeks before, having to miss a live-streaming episode of Doctor Who to get another draft written for his editor.

“Just checking.”

If he had forgotten about tonight, she wasn't sure when she would have another chance to reveal her gift for him in such a nice and quiet setting. When she had found out that his birthday was in August, she'd immediately decided that she wanted to make it special for him in some way. She was grateful that, even in such small quarters, her secret had managed to stay secret and Fitz seemed to have no idea of her plan. It was a small miracle, really.

It came to Jemma's attention that, instead of moving to work on their respective tasks, they had both been standing together silently for a period of time that was a tad bit too long to be entirely natural. When she looked up at him, the expression on his face was one that she had been catching more often these days. She couldn't quite put her finger on what it was exactly, but it made her feel an uncomfortable warmth in her cheeks. She had no idea what he could see in her face in return, but he quickly looked away, nervously rubbing his hand through his hair.

“Well, I'll see you...”

“...later tonight then, yes.”

They exchanged a quick smile before parting ways, Jemma walking in the direction of the lab. However, her mind was far from analyzing the finer points of chemical synthesis and was instead occupied with her mental to-do list for tonight. When she was sure she was out of sight and that enough time had passed for Fitz to be settling back at his usual desk, she veered left toward the medical bay.

\-----

The Bus had become more of a home to Jemma than she could have ever imagined. Especially considering that at any given time a number of militants, alien artifacts, or men in government-issued suits and dark glasses could be floating around. Sometimes even literally floating.

There was no denying it. The transition had been hard.

After leaving her flat and the past behind, she had boarded the Bus and been thrown into a completely different world.

A world that she gradually realized gave her more purpose and fulfillment than she'd ever felt before in both her life and her work. A world that was challenging every day and sent her all over the world to encounter all matter of people, places, and things. A world where she became so close to her team that it was beginning to feel like a second family—albeit a very quirky and dysfunctional one. A world of heartbreak and victory. A world that she had grown to love.

And, centered within it, a man she was scared to admit to herself that she was falling in love with.

It had been unusual having Fitz in her life, at first. His contract with his employer allowed him to work remotely for _Scientific American_ while remaining within SHIELD, sending breaking news and firsthand accounts to be published with Coulson's approval. Occasionally, however, he would have to work in-house, and it was during one of those absences that it began to dawn on Jemma just how much she was becoming accustomed to his presence and how lost she felt without him there to talk and laugh and gripe with.

Never before had someone so deeply ingrained themselves into her life.

One thing that Jemma had learned over the past few months of finally getting to know Leopold Fitz was how completely ridiculous it had been to be intimidated by and—she would never outwardly admit it, but—slightly afraid of his presence. Beyond all of the egotistical comments and unrelenting pessimism that had formerly made up Jemma's impression of him, Fitz was a genuinely hardworking, funny, caring man.

Not to say that he didn't lose his temper at completely incomprehensible things or mutter snarky comebacks under his breath or get on her very last nerve sometimes, but Jemma was beginning to understand why.

Because he was shorter than other men, he felt like he always had something to prove. Because his father had left him, any hint of betrayal had his hackles up faster than you could blink. Because he'd rarely had true friends growing up, he instinctively distanced himself from his peers at the first sign of criticism, acting as though his achievements and intelligence made him impervious to getting his feelings hurt. Fitz liked fairness and justice and being on the receiving end of spontaneous admiration, he hated raw vegetables despite the many times she had tried to lure him into eating them, and Jemma was beginning to realize that he had a soft spot for her that paradoxically caused him to be both more irritable around her and far, far more sweet and gentle than she'd ever imagined he could be, least of all to his ‘bitter rival’.

Jemma also decided that part of his growing attractiveness stemmed from how unaware of his body he always seemed to be. In contrast to the type of men she had admired in the past, Fitz was unconcerned with appearances, something she hadn't realized could be so appealing. And when his ego did come out to play, it was now so obviously contrary to his personality that it could never be mistaken for true ego—it was obviously borne of insecurity.

 _He shouldn't be insecure, though_ , she thought. He was brilliant and quirky, and being around each other, both personally and professionally, seemed right. Jemma rarely felt the need to second guess things with him, be it his mood or his food preferences or whether he was being honest with her, because he was always just...Fitz. Grumpy Fitz. Sleepy Fitz. Hungry Fitz. Excited Fitz. What you see is what you get. It was easy to be around him, and made him a wonderful friend to have. Especially as she acclimated to her new life of constant intrigue and espionage.

She had been denying the fact for so long, but it was getting harder and harder to pretend that she just wanted Fitz as a friend, when it was beginning to dawn on her that she just wanted him—full stop.  
  
Which was why it had been so important to her to make this birthday special in some meaningful way. The team would be throwing Fitz an impromptu party later in the week, but Jemma had decided to give Fitz his gift early, as it was slightly out of the ordinary and she wanted to be sure that he really understood what is was. Presenting it in private seemed like the best option.

What Jemma hadn't planned for was the nervous excitement and anticipation that she would be forced to conceal throughout the entire movie. She thought she had done a pretty good job of acting natural, but as the music swelled and the credits appeared, Fitz turned to her from where he sat on the other side of the small couch, where he had remained a respectable distance away throughout the film.

“Are you sure you're okay? I thought you might fall off the couch there for a while with how much you've been fidgeting."

Jemma was quick to reassure him, “No, no. I'm perfectly fine, Fitz. It's just that I've got something for you and it's not exactly a big thing, but it's not exactly _not_ a big thing, either. It's for your birthday and I've been planning it for a while and you know how I get when I've been overthinking and overpreparing, so I'm just going to stop rambling and give it to you now.”

She inhaled hard, hastily pushing of the blanket she'd had wrapped around her legs and walking over to the cabinet where she had stashed his present.

Curiosity piqued, she heard Fitz scramble up behind her.

“You got something for me?” A look of excitement crossed his face, something Simmons was quick to squash down.

“Well, it's not an actual gift, in the traditional manner of speaking, since we haven't had a lot of spare time to get out much recently what with hunting down HYDRA, and all. And it's not technically for you, but it's not technically _not_ for you. It's...it's hard to explain. But, I think...hopefully you'll appreciate it just the same.”

“You got me a birthday present?” he clarified, unable hide his satisfaction. Jemma knew he secretly loved it when people did things for him. And he loved presents.

“Well, actually, it's a combined gift from me and Skye.”

The smile was immediately wiped off of Fitz' face, to be replaced with an expression that Jemma could only classify as somewhere between wary and fearful.

“Just trust me,” said Jemma with a knowing smile, “For the last year that's all that anyone's been telling me to do. Now it's your turn.”

The overly innocent way in which she chose to deliver this statement did nothing to settle Fitz' evident fear of an ambush, and he looked around nervously, as though waiting for something to jump out at him or perhaps giant buckets of glue and glitter to fall from the ceiling. Jemma's new friend and resident hacker Skye, had a reputation for pulling pranks that ranged anywhere from simple, adorable, and childish to, as Agent Lance Hunter once conjectured, 'no one actually knows who her parents are—is there any chance she could have been spawned from the devil himself?'—so Fitz' fear was quite justified.

Fitz gave Jemma a look and demanded, “Be honest, did Skye put you up to this?”

She grinned in response, but then responded seriously.

“No. Truly, you don't need to worry. It was my idea, but Skye was more than happy to help, as you can imagine.”

After an unfortunate run in with a group of gun-toting smugglers, their energetic friend was being confined to bedrest under threat of having her internet privileges taken away, Coulson muttering discontentedly, but without any real vitriol, about his agents being more like children than employeees of a rogue government faction. Thus, when Jemma had asked for Skye's help on this project, the fellow brunette had hugged her so enthusiastically that it had taken five minutes to untangle her medical bracelet from Jemma's hair, and acted as though Jemma had just given her the birthday present. And, once Jemma had related what it was that she was planning to do, Skye had made the longest “AWWW!” sound that had ever been voiced and pronounced the confused, but blushing journalist the “most considerate British snowflake of a cinnamon bun” that she had ever seen.

“What? Skye, that doesn't even make sense. What do snowflakes and cinnamon buns even have to do with each other? A cinnamon bun would melt a snowflake. And anyway, I mean, I know he will appreciate it, but do you think he will be disappointed that he didn't get anything for himself?

Skye just gave her a look of thinly veiled amusement. “You don't get online much, do you? But seriously, this is one of the sweetest things. Trust, me, Fitz is not going to care one bit, because he's going to be too busy spontaneously combusting with how thoughtful you are and how in love with you he is.” She paused, her mouth quirking up wickedly.

“...And, speaking of combusting,” she began slowly, “I'm sure there's something that you could give him in addition to this that would easily blow every other present he's ever gotten out of the running for Best Birthday Gift of All Time.” Her eyes widened in faux innocence. “Whoops, did I use the word 'blow'? Freud would be proud.”

“SKYE!” Jemma scolded her friend, her face heating up to a degree that she thought might be able to fry an egg. “You know we haven't...I mean, we're not...you know we decided to take this slow, do this right. Make sure we were even capable of being friends, much less anything more than that.”

“I know, I know,” Skye rolled her eyes fondly, “and it's smart, and wise, and adorable, truly. But it doesn't mean I'm not going to tease you about it, because you two are one heated gaze away from lighting this plane on fire sometimes.” She laughed, and her movements caused her to wince, coughing slightly. This brought Jemma's attention away from her own mortification and back to the fact that her friend was recovering from a serious injury.

“You need your rest,” she admonished. “I can't believe you've had me in here talking for twenty whole minutes now, when you promised Coulson it wouldn't be more than five.”

“Aww, Simmons,” she whined, “it's so boring in here with no one to talk to and nothing to do. I even get excited when May comes to visit. You know things are dull when she seems talkative in comparison. I'll rest, but promise me you will visit again soon? I should have everything ready in a couple of days or so...”

Which had brought Jemma to this moment, as she placed the thin, unwrapped package in Fitz' hands.

“Here,” Jemma punctuated the movement with a small smile, “Happy birthday, Fitz.”

The outer envelope itself wasn't sealed, but she had tied it closed with twine, the only thing she could find on the entire airplane that looked even remotely like gift wrap.

She watched nervously as his nimble fingers untied the bow, slid into the envelope, and carefully pulled out the crisp pages that it contained.

His eyes scanned the document and his forehead crinkled in confusion.

“'In recognition of over thirty years of exceptional service, we, the Guild of American Security Officers name you, Bernard C. Thompson, the guild's Lifetime Employee of the Year. This award is presented in acknowledgement of your loyalty, integrity, and hard work. The guild would like to publically honor your years of service with a banquet and the enclosed check for $10,000. Details below.”

Fitz gave both Jemma and the letter a double take. “Wait, Bernard Thompson? This is for Bernie. Bernie won an award? This is amazing, how did this happen?”

Jemma smiled gently, “Well, see, that's the thing. It hasn't yet. And as for how...the answer is you. You're how this happened. Or, more accurately, how it will happen.

Fitz' eyes were still questioning, “I don't...”

Jemma explained shyly, her weight shifting from foot to foot.

“When you told me about Bernie and how his family was struggling financially and that you wished you could help him, but thought he might have too much pride to accept something he didn't earn, I kept thinking that there had to be a solution. And there was. Create something for him that he already had earned. I thought winning an award sounded best. There will be a formal dinner, his family will be able to watch him accept it, and the local paper will run an article on him. He can get the recognition that he deserves, the money he needs, and he'll never know that you were the one that made it happen.

“All you need to do now is address the letter and put it in a mailbox the next time we land.”

Fitz stared at her, dumbfounded. Eventually he looked down, swallowing visibly, and spoke.

“Jemma, this is really...I mean, how did you...?” he cleared his throat, and lifted his blue eyes to meet hers, his gaze serious and intense, almost burning into Jemma's skin.

Jittery and uncomfortable in a decidedly pleasurable way, Jemma barely knew what she was saying as she rambled, “It wasn't really that original. I didn't even come up with the idea, you had already done that. And Skye did most of the work, setting up the donation account and hacking into the security guild's mainframe, so you'll definitely need to thank her. I just organized the project and put in a few finishing touches to make it happen.”

Fitz gave a huff of a laugh before saying gruffly, “If you think I'm going to believe that, then you definitely don't deserve those degrees that are up on your wall. This is amazing. I...thank you,” he said, carefully slipping the papers back into the envelope and putting it aside.

“I'm glad you like it, Fitz,” Jemma smiled, relieved, “I wanted to do something special in honor of your birthday, but also more than that. Us being friends, and actually getting along. More than geting along, actually. I've come to really care for you and I wanted you to know.”

Fitz' eyes seemed to ask her some question that she couldn't decipher, and he seemed unsure of himself when he replied, “Jemma, I really want to...to...thank you.”

Jemma gave a bemused chuckle at this strange behavior, “You already did, silly. And you're very welcome. I was happy to do it.”

“No,” he brought his hands up to his eyes, shaking his head back and forth as he scrubbed at them, “That's not what I meant. I mean that I want to...to thank you...properly.” His face crinkled in frustration. “Or, properly's not the right word, exactly, as we're friends. I want to show you...I was wondering if it would be alright if I...if I could maybe...” his fists clenched at his sides. He opened his eyes and breathed deeply.

A sharp murmur of, “Screw it,” was the last thing Jemma heard before his lips were more-or-less on hers and the feeling of his hands sliding eagerly over her sides and lower back to hold her close became the only things grounding her to the earth. Before Jemma could begin to respond, however, his body stiffened and he pulled away.

A breathless, wild-eyed Fitz regarded her with trepidation.

“Be honest with me,” he panted, a sliver of fear running through his eyes, “Did I just ruin everything?”

Jemma struggled to catch her own breath while trying to wrap her head around the last few minutes. She didn't even think she could put her thoughts into a coherent sentence, so she gave up trying and just shook her head quietly, whispering a quick, “No, quite the opposite, actually.”

At that, her hands slid up his chest and around his neck to fiddle with the tag that was hanging out of his shirt, tucking it back in and gripping his collar as she languidly searched out his lips...and then his jaw, and then his neck, and then a spot behind his ear that made him shiver. He let out a groan and guided her lips back up to meet his, burying his hands in her hair and reciprocating the journey over her skin, his mouth discovering a similar spot just above her collarbone that had her fingers gripping his upper arm tightly. Again returning to her mouth, he caught the fingers that had been wandering around his back and laced them with his. Eventually, their desperation evened out into slow, searching licks and nips, and eventually they had to come up for air.

Leaning against the wall beside them to catch their breath, they both just smiled at each other, caught between shyness and overwhelming joy. As she propped her forehead against his cheek, Jemma recalled something humorous.

“Skye's going to flip when she finds out about this.” Jemma couldn't help the laugh that rose in her chest at the thought. “She had actually suggested giving you a…,” she let out a strangled chuckle, “...different sort of gift than the one I had initially planned.”

“Hmm?” Fitz murmured, distractedly, “Like what?”

She spoke, her words coming out more breathily than she had intended, “Well, let’s just say that if our relationship keeps progressing at the same snail’s pace that it has for the past ten months, you might really enjoy Christmas this year.” She punctuated this statement by sliding the hand currently resting on his waist downward to grab firmly onto his hip.

At her touch, something seemed to click in Fitz’ brain, and he pulled back to look at her, his eyes wide and his mouth opening and closing silently. Instead of leaning back in for another kiss, however, he abruptly disengaged himself from her arms and returned to the couch, whipping out his mobile from its usual location in his back pocket as he sat down. A few taps later, he began scrolling furiously, the planes of his face illuminated by the glow of the screen.

In his absence, Jemma suddenly felt the coldness of the room wash over her, and stood in shock and confusion at the abrupt change in pace, but before she could even say a word, Fitz hastily called out.

“You know, there are so many holidays that we don’t give the importance they deserve. Like..do you by any chance want to celebrate Columbus Day this year? I mean, we’re practically, what do you call it?...,” he snapped his fingers in agitation before it came to him, “...common law Americans anyway, right?”

Before Jemma could process this statement long enough to point out that ‘common law citizenship' wasn’t actually a thing, Fitz had moved on, his eyes shifting furiously as glanced back at his phone.

“Or...OR! Even better, how do you feel about observing National Women’s Equality Day? I mean, you're a woman!”

As Jemma finally caught on to Fitz' train of thought, she couldn't help the grin that broke out over her face, even as she rolled her eyes. She couldn't resist the quote that was practically begging to be echoed. She schooled her features into that of Hermione-Granger-like exasperation.

“Oh, well spotted.”

But Fitz didn't even notice her attempt to make fun of him, as he continued to scroll and tap at his phone aggressively, still murmuring.

“...certainly applies to women of all nationalities, and we as a society have come so far since the Suffrage Movement... should really be a more prominent holiday...definitely calls for gifts...”

With a knowing smile, Jemma crossed her arms over her chest, clearing her throat and casually asking, “And when exactly is National Women’s Equality Day?”

Fitz shrugged his shoulders sheepishly, a carefully crafted look of innocence on his face.

“Next week?”

At this declaration, Jemma couldn’t stand it in any longer. She threw back her head and laughed until she could feel tears welling in her eyes. Even Fitz couldn’t manage to look appropriately offended at her reaction and, instead, broke into a smile at her obvious joy. Wiping her eyes, she walked over and sat next to him, pulling one of his arms away from his phone to hug it close to her, intertwining her fingers with his and letting her head rest on his shoulder.

As her giggles resided, she finally managed to speak.

“Well, regardless of when the next holiday should present itself, a gift—especially one of this magnitude—requires preparation, don't you think? The kind that should begin long in advance?”

At this statement, Fitz' jaw bobbed up and down and a look of hopefulness crossed Fitz' face, barely concealing his desire.

“You do like to be prepared,” he breathed, his voice catching as it deepened.

Jemma couldn't help a mischievous smile, as future possibilities began to flash through her thoughts.

“I don't just like to be prepared. I _excel_ at it.”

There was no denying the eagerness that took over his features, and when his mouth bobbed open again to reply, Jemma decided that whatever he had to say couldn't possibly be more important than what she had in mind. She shifted, fingers insinuating themselves into the short hair at the nape of his neck, lips moving forward to meet his in a moan as she dragged him down to lie next to her and begin where they left off.


End file.
